~ S ~

A Plugboy tells him to go to TV World. Although, frankly, his voice and his face are a bit more weathered than any other Plugboy he’s ever met. Plugmook, maybe? Regardless, he says his name’s Ramb and that ‘the boss’ wants to have a word with him over some potential business contract—commercials and the like. And, well, none of the other Addisons have been showing up for dinner at the cyber grill (they all used to pile around a table and poke fun at him, but still, even when he’d lay in bed, chain-smoking cigarettes and staring at the ceiling with a growing chasm of shame in his heart, he'd also never felt so loved), so he’s got no reason to stick around Cyber City tonight. Or any other night, really.

From the outside, the studio is flashy and exciting to look at. But once he’s inside, he can see that the wallpaper is a bit… old. Certainly not the current style. Still, he holds his tongue and lets a Zapper lead him through the building and backstage until they reach the Green Room and, from there, the boss’s dressing room. “Bring him in! I’m decent!” a voice calls from inside, chipper and with a strange accent that’s nostalgic, even though he’s never heard it before. The Zapper opens the door and leaves them to it, so he steps inside. The boss has a giant TV in place of a normal head, carefully wiping at his screen with a microfiber cloth. “Oh! There he is! Spamton G. Spamton, the biggest name in Cyber City!” The boss stands, and Spamton’s breath catches in his throat, unable to stop his eyes from widening as he cranes his neck to look up, up, up.

The boss is easily ten feet tall, his smile wide and oozing charm as he leans down to offer his hand. He’s dressed in bright reds and yellows, his blazer perfectly tailored and thick gloves covering his hands. “Oh, you have no idea how excited I am that you’re here!” he exclaims with a laugh. He’s like a bright star in the night sky, and his eagerness is contagious. Spamton can see the peek of fangs in his smile, long enough that he could probably wrap a hand around one.

“I wanna climb you like a tree,” is what he almost says before he can catch himself. He shoves that down and accepts the handshake, saying instead, “Haha, well, not every day I get an [Once In A Lifetime Offer] like this!”

The boss pauses for just a second. Spamton’s starting to get used to the random interjections that jump unbidden from his throat—they’ve gotten him this far, he might as well just trust them at this point—but he forgets that it can be jarring to other people. “Hah! Well, good to meet you. I’m Ant Tenna. Tenna is just fine.” Tenna stands back up and grabs a spare chair, rolling it towards him before returning to his vanity. He pats the new seat invitingly, even taking the time to lower it down to something more comfortable to Spamton’s height. “So. You haven’t been on TV before, right?”

Spamton sits down, ponders the question for a bit. Confidence comes easier to him these days, even without the voice on the phone, so he grins and says, “No, but hey, I’ll try anything once.”

~ T ~

Spamton G. Spamton, owner of Big Shot Autos and currently the biggest salesman in Cyber City, can not hold his liquor.

After the first martini at the Green Room bar after their first show together, he starts laughing a little too hard at jokes. After the second martini, he gets… touchy. He playfully slaps Tenna’s arm, but his hand lingers, sliding down just a little before pulling away. It makes Tenna feel a little funny, honestly, especially when Spamton starts laughing too hard at his own joke and twists on his stool, leaning into him as he cackles.

Ramb describes them as ‘getting on like a house on fire’. Yes, Tenna had his reasons for reaching out to someone like Spamton; his practically overnight success was meteoric, and, frankly, Tenna could use new material. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn a thing or two from this mail guy. But dammit, Spamton is charming! A little arrogant, maybe, but considering he had his own room in Queen’s Castle, of all places, he’d earned the right to throw his weight around in Tenna’s book. The night before the interview, they took a drive outside of the city, settling somewhere in the outskirts with scanlines stretching into the horizon above them. The whole city glowed in the distance. “I went from nothing to this,” he’d said, gesturing to the gorgeous view. His smile was so dreamy, so awed. Of course, during the interview, he was nothing but confident and cheery.

Tenna knows an act when he sees one, considering he puts one on every day of his life. But the rare occasions Spamton seems to grow humble are almost even more charming than the Big Shot™ act he puts on, tempered only by his habit of disappearing to talk on the rotary phone he brought with him from Cyber City. He’s still very hush-hush about that for some reason. “Sorry, [[CRT]]. Trade secret,” he'd said as he'd finished off his first martini with a cheeky wink.

Once he’s done with his third martini, Tenna cuts him off. “I think we’re done for the night, hm?”

Spamton sighs in defeat, leaning back and nearly falling off the stool. Tenna leans over to catch him with one arm before he topples over, and he laughs again, grinning up at Tenna. “Whoa! Careful!” he says, legs kicking playfully as he lays back against Tenna’s arm. “[Falling For You] isn’t supposed to be literal, [[Big Shot]]!”

When Tenna helps him up, he sees Ramb give him a knowing, dry smirk.

~ S ~

Tenna has a high alcohol tolerance until he doesn’t, which doesn’t make a lot of sense unless you witness it firsthand. For example, they've gone to the Green Room bar again after another successful interview that Spamton was barely conscious for, letting his mouth move on autopilot; he can’t lie, his benefactor’s help is very handy, but some part of him does feel bad that Tenna didn’t quite get the ‘interview of the decade’ that he was hoping for.

He’d checked back in right at the final question, where Tenna had asked if he would be pursuing a “prime time” career after the budding success of their collaboration. His brain had moved a bit faster than his mouth. He’d let it. “Only with a [Gracious] [[CRT]] like you!” he’d said with a laugh and a wink. Tenna’s screen had turned pink for just a moment, but it could have also been the lighting.

Regardless, Tenna treats him to a couple of drinks with the caveat that he takes it slow. “Don’t want a repeat of the big spill you almost took last time!” Tenna laughs, knocking back the last of his whiskey. He drinks it neat, immediately signaling for another.

“One martini, two martini, three martini, [Floor],“ Spamton jokes with a mildly self-deprecating smile. Yeah, he’d gotten a bit carried away with the martinis. He swears that this Plugmook, Ramb, has it out for him. He doesn’t ever say much, but there’s a look in his eyes that makes Spamton suspicious. It seems like whenever they come here, the drinks are unfairly strong. Tenna laughs again even louder, covering his mouth and turning away.

Everything seems fine. Every time he looks over, Tenna’s glass looks like it’s barely been touched, so he assumes that Tenna’s a sipper, a savorer. Nothing wrong with that. They shoot the breeze about viewership and donations and a possible game show segment—the winner gets a car courtesy of Big Shot Autos, which Spamton’s a bit conflicted about because why the hell would he give one away?—before one of the Weather folks swings by and reminds Tenna that he and his partner want to renegotiate their contracts.

Tenna sighs, setting his empty glass down and pushing it away. “Well. Guess they’re giving me the hook.” He tries to stand up and promptly staggers, whining as he hits the floor hard, landing right on his knees and shrinking a solid half of a foot. “Owwww.” And it’s only then that Spamton realizes that he’s wrong. Tenna hadn’t been nursing the same drink for the past twenty minutes, he's actually had quite a few. How many has he had, then? “Ramb, I thought I told you to take it easy on the drinks! We don’t have the budget for you to be pouring doubles!”

“Sorry, boss,” Ramb says casually. “Force of habit.”

Spamton jumps off his stool and offers a hand. Tenna leans into him as he stands, nearly knocking them both over, and mumbles, “Sorry, let me just…” And he shrinks even more until, instead of his usual ten feet, he’s standing about six feet tall, just a bit taller than Spamton. “J-just, uh… get me to the dressing rooms, I’ll find my way from there.”

“And leave a poor [Damsel] alone like this? What’d’ya take me for?” Spamton chides, letting Tenna lean on him as he heads towards the dressing rooms.

Tenna’s shoe falls off halfway down the hall and Spamton stops to look. “Leave it!” Tenna barks, staring down at the yellow loafer with pure disdain. Spamton rolls his eyes and lets go just long enough to grab it, tucking it under his free arm. Tenna snickers, briefly resting his head on top of his co-star’s as he purrs, “Ohh, my hero!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spamton lowers his head, cheeks flushing in a light blush as they continue onward. Tenna pulls back to unlock the door to his dressing room, stumbles inside, and promptly faceplants onto a couch with a groan. “You gonna be alright, [[Big Shot]]?”

Tenna mumbles something incoherently, waving him away. Spamton sets the shoe right on the middle of Tenna’s vanity, stopping to notice his reflection. There’s a small indent of a boxy corner in his otherwise perfectly gelled hair. He huffs and, as Tenna rolls over and flails out of his blazer, quietly flees the dressing room.

~ T ~

One of his shoes is sitting on the vanity. Tenna stares at it. If he thinks really hard, he remembers resting his head on Spamton’s and hanging off of him and purring like a flirty schoolgirl. He drops his head in his hands and groans.

~ S ~

Tenna seems to be getting flustered more easily after that night. On-screen, on-air, he’s as unflappable and dynamic as ever. They trade quips and jokes like it’s a dance, or a song, pushing and pulling in a rhythm that feels so natural. As soon as those cameras turn off, though, Tenna can’t seem to look directly at Spamton anymore. He and his antennae always seem to be facing straight ahead, only glancing or rotating toward him when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking.

Unfortunately for the TV host, Spamton has never had the patience for this kind of game. After suffering this behavior for all of one day, he knocks on the door of Tenna’s dressing room after hours, cracking it open after waiting a few seconds. “Got a [Prime Time] invitation for you, [[CRT]].”

Tenna jumps at the sound of Spamton’s voice, spinning in his chair. He is sitting at his vanity, but there’s still a bit of dust in one of the corners of his screen. “H-hey, partner! An invitation, huh?”

Spamton holds up a finger. “One [Terms And Conditions]. What is going on?”

Tenna’s fingers dig into the arms of his chair. “What do you mean?”

Spamton sighs, tilting his head and fixing Tenna with his best ‘really?’ expression. “You’ve been acting [Weird Route] all day.” He pauses. While the intrusions into his speech patterns are par for the course, this one… 'Weird Route'? What the hell, benefactor?

“Weird Route…?” Tenna also seems perplexed by the phrase, but only for a moment before he shakes his head and sighs, slouching a bit. “Anyway. I… want to apologize for my behavior at the bar. I don’t usually drink that much, and I certainly don’t make it a habit to act like that when I do.”

Spamton waves his hand. “What, yelling at your [Shoese]?” He has a suspicion that’s not what Tenna means, but whatever. Like he wasn’t high-key flirting after the Three Martini Incident. “Whatever! It happens. Now. [Primo] invitation—party at [Queen-Sized] Castle tonight. I get a plus one since I [Rent Luxury Units!]. Wanna hang with the real [[Big Shots]]?”

Tenna sits upright, his antennae bending in intrigue. “Oh? Well… I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve networked.” The tension eases as he snickers. “Get it?” Spamton snorts, which apparently gives Tenna the courage he needs to turn back to his vanity. “Let me just clean up a bit.”

~ T ~

Tenna has to admit that he’s not quite used to this side of stardom. Queen’s Mansion is luxurious, certainly, but the people here ooze insincerity in a way he’s never really seen before. Tenna is fortunate enough to have his own network, so he doesn’t have to humble-brag to any of his co-stars or employees about metrics and whatever, but here… he hears the subtle jeers and back-handed compliments firing at a mile a minute. Although it’s not all bad; he swears that someone calls him ‘a tall drink of water’ when he walks by the appetizer table.

He’s bigger than everyone here, too, but Spamton told him under no circumstances should he shrink himself down. “You’re literally the [BIGGEST] Star here, [[CRT]]!” Spamton tells him right outside the entrance to the castle, patting him on the leg with a grin. “[Show it off?].” True, being ten feet tall certainly gets him attention, even if most people only really show genuine interest because he’s with Spamton.

Something interesting seems to happen to his new co-host, though. From day one, he’s noticed that Spamton’s voice tends to hitch strangely mid-sentence, almost as if he’s being dubbed over in real-time. He’s started to get used to it, but the longer they stay at this party and the more people ask Spamton about business details, the more he does it, and the more noticeable it is. Like he’s running on autopilot. Even the other guests start to give him strange looks after a while, but his answers seem to satisfy them, so they don’t say anything.

At some point, Spamton leans in and says normally, “It’s a bit stuffy in here. Gonna step out.”

“Oh. Want some company?” Spamton nods and leads him to a wall walk. It’s much quieter out here, and he can see Spamton’s shoulders visibly relax as he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a cigarette carton. He offers one up. “Oh no, I’m a cigar man.” Tenna fishes his cigar case out of his blazer, pausing and offering it down. “Go ahead, Mr. Try Anything Once.” Spamton looks at him with a little bit of surprise in his eyes before he slides the cigarettes back into his jacket and takes a cigar. They smoke in silence, and the party continues in the castle behind them with gusto. “I don’t share these with just anyone, you know.”

“Well, Mr. Tenna,” Spamton says with a soft laugh. “I’m downright honored.”

~ S ~

Spamton locks himself in his dressing room. He still tastes thick smoke on his teeth as he shrugs his jacket off and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt. Tenna’s voice echoes in his head: ‘I don’t share with just anyone’. [Angel, Angel], this stupid television is going to kill him. Spamton’s great at echoing his benefactor, telling people what they want to hear, but Tenna… he can take charge of a room. He has this whole network, this whole world, under his thumb. He hates to admit that he could learn a few things from Mr. Ant Tenna... if only he could stop imagining yanking him down and licking his fangs.

Spamton sits down at his vanity and faceplants into the wood with a groan. What the actual hell is wrong with him? Usually, he’s pretty good about keeping business and pleasure separate (although it helps that he has precious little experience with the latter), but something about Tenna just makes him so… [Ant]sy. He huffs a laugh at the internal pun, takes a deep breath, and ends up locking eyes with the poster on his wall. His thoughts fade into the background as he stares. His dressing room is pretty nice for something that was whipped together from a spare room; Tenna had been downright anxious when he’d revealed it.

But anyway: the poster. When they realized that he’d be sticking around for a bit, Tenna had pitched the idea of them coming up with promotional material, and this poster was the first thing they’d set up. Both of them are front and center, beaming at the camera while a big font declares “Big Shot Autos Presents Mr. 'Ant' Tenna’s Marvelous Mystery Board: TV Time!” under them. Now that he’s taking the time to really look at it, he’s a bit surprised. Tenna is almost dead center, standing in a spotlight with a microphone in his hand and a dazzling smile on his face. But standing right beside him, Spamton has his share of the spotlight as well. There’s a microphone wire twisted up in his hands as he poses like a rock star with an equally bright smile. They’re color-coordinated, too—Tenna went out of his way to get Spamton his own bright red blazer so they’d look cohesive.

It’s the first time he’s really ever seen himself as a star. He’s done promotional images before, sure, but seeing someone else with him… honestly, it stirs up some complicated feelings. Pride. Abandonment. A stark reminder of how lonely getting [Big] has made him.

Spamton stares at himself in the mirror. At the end of the day, he can see the other Addisons staring back. “Your loss,” he says to them through gritted teeth. His reflection’s eyes grow hard. “Good riddance.”

~ T ~

The party ends up being a boon. Tenna has managed to set up a few interviews with some other prominent people in Cyber City while they still have access to each other, so views are starting to spike again. Still, while he spends the next few days running around to make sure everything goes right, he also makes time to check in with Spamton and often finds himself dragged along to bars and grills after shows. Or, sometimes, they play games in the Green Room. Even more frequently, though, Spamton joins him in his dressing room and they just talk. “My first big special guest deserves a bit of special treatment, right?“ Tenna rationalizes to Lanino backstage.

“Sure, Tenna,” Lanino says, staring at him for a second. There’s a suspicious look in his eyes that slowly shifts to something almost smug. “Although—star to star?”

“You’re not a star, you're a sun, but go ahead.”

Lanino crosses his arms with a tick of a frown at that. “Well, when the weather really started taking off, Elnina and I certainly started spending a lot of time together. So much that now, it feels wrong not to have her with me. The sky isn’t complete without the clouds, you know.”

Tenna glances down at his watch and swirls his finger in a circle. “Your point, Lanino?”

“My point is, he’s been here for well over a week and you two are never apart. There’s no shame in admitting he might be your Elnina.”

Tenna snorts. “Please! You really can’t compare us. You fell in love with her, after all.” Lanino just looks at him pointedly again before a Pippins nudges him to head on stage. Tenna stares after him, an uncertain feeling in his chest.

~ S ~

Elnina’s body seems stiff as she brushes the dye into Spamton’s hair. He hadn’t asked for her help; she had noticed that his hair was slowly starting to fade into gray and offered. Although her offer had been somewhat begrudging. “If you go out there looking like that, it looks bad on all of us,” she’d said as she practically threw him at his vanity. He has to admit that, even if she seems to view this as a chore, she’s pretty good at it. She’s thorough, pulling sections out and thoroughly saturating it with professional-grade black dye, most of which has stayed on the brush and in his hair rather than dripping onto his face.

Box dye is cheap and plentiful, but when he’d told her about his stash in his dressing room, her eyes had nearly shot out of her head. “Is it really that [Big] of a deal?” he mutters, staring at their reflections.

She pauses, lips pursed in disdain at the question as she meets his eyes. “For the biggest salesman in Cyber City—and Tenna’s favorite guest star—it comes across as cheap.”

“I’m his favorite, huh?” Elnina rolls her eyes and pulls back to scrutinize the application. She turns the chair slightly and gets to work on the last section of his hair. He kicks his legs and sighs, doomed to stare at a blank wall instead of their reflections now. “So hey. What’s his [Deal or No Deal]? Married to the job or what?”

Elnina hushes him, leaning in to carefully work on his roots. Only once she’s sure that he doesn’t have any on his face does she pull back and answer, “To put it lightly. I don’t think he ever left the studio before you showed up. We’ve all told him that new material keeps us on the air, but he’s not the most creative person.”

“He’s just gotta rebrand.”

Elnina puts the brush down, looking him over one last time before nodding. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Let it sit for half an hour. Clean out the shower when you’re done, dye is a nightmare to get out of the tiles.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” She rolls her eyes and takes the dye bowl with her as she leaves. Spamton does one lazy spin in his chair before he settles back down to stare at his reflection. The black hair had been a serious point of contention with the others; he’d started dyeing his hair well before he made the call that catapulted him into fame. They’d been concerned he was trying too hard. Maybe all that teasing had been their way of trying to protect him. He glances back at his phone. Some part of him misses them; Addisons were meant to stick together, and is there really any reason why he can't call them? But then he remembers the teasing, the laughter at his expense, the way that he’d see them at the grill without him once the clicks started rolling in, and his chest tightens. “Good riddance,” he repeats. It doesn’t have the same bite to it this time.

~ T ~

Spamton seems… off. They’re grabbing some coffee before their morning game show segment, but Spamton has been stirring his coffee for a solid minute now, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the table under them. Tenna drums his fingers on the table, his cup hovering in front of his mouth before he gives up and sets it down with a sigh. “Okay, what’s with the sad look? It really doesn’t suit you.”

Spamton jolts, eyes wide. “…Reminiscing about [[The Classics You've Come To Expect! (C)1997]].” Tenna tilts his head slightly and waits for his co-host to elaborate. Spamton finally puts the stir stick down and rests his elbows on the table. “I [Work Hard, Play Hard] to get here. But… a lot of people ditched me when I started [Making] it [Big].” He sighs, slouching down in his chair and pouting a little. “You ever feel lonely at [The Big Top]?”

Tenna’s mouth twitches. “Never!” he answers with a forceful laugh. “No, that’s what I have a crew for! That’s the great thing about working in television, Spammy; you’re never on set alone.”

Spamton glances up at him. He’s on the border of downright sulking now, but there’s something in his voice when he says, “’Spammy’?”

“Oh!” Tenna covers his mouth. “Too familiar? You call me ‘CRT’ all the time, so I thought we might be on the nickname level, but…”

“It’s just… no one’s ever called me that.” Spamton glances back down, mulling it over. “…I don’t hate it.”

Tenna relaxes a bit and leans back in his chair. “Anyway. There’s always gonna be people that hate what you’re putting on. You could always do what I do: make giant paper mâché sculptures of them and beat those up for anger management.”

Spamton finally laughs, his expression lightening. “You don’t actually do that, do you?”

Tenna bends one of his antennae in a cheeky way. “It’s cathartic.”

~ S ~

Today’s show is a special quiz show featuring some guest stars from Cyber City, Tenna’s idea of a grand goodbye and thanks for their time. Spamton’s properly co-hosting, providing snarky commentary when someone gets a question wrong, and Tenna either backs him up or gently urges him to cool down. During the first commercial break, Tasque Manager leans forward and says, “The two of you are so well-trained! Perfect synchronization. It’s beautiful to watch.”

Tenna laughs, his screen tinged pink as he adjusts his collar. “Flattery will get you almost everywhere, you know! Just not here,” he replies, bowing his head. One of his antennae bends sideways in an almost cheeky manner. But when he and Spamton very briefly step off-stage, the compliments start. “You’re on fire, my friend! See, this is the beauty of television. You have to make the audience work for you, and they’re eating you up!”

Spamton laughs, reaching up to pat Tenna’s arm. “The views are some of the highest we’ve ever seen, Tenna,” a Pippins chimes in, nudging their headset off. “Quintuple digits.”

“Q-quin…” For the first time since they’ve met, Tenna is speechless, his screen turning staticky for a moment. “Well, if we can keep it that way through the end of the show, it could be the kick we need! I want this back stage running like a well-oiled machine, got it?” The Pippins nods and turns back towards a Shadowguy and a Zapper, starting a hushed but intense conversation with them. “Quintuple,” Tenna repeats with a quiet laugh, leaning down to take Spamton’s hands in his. “That’s five digits! Oh, I’m so happy, I could k—”

Suddenly, the whole world freezes. There’s a current of something in the air, radiating around the iron grip they have on each others’ hands. Tenna’s screen flushes pink again before going completely black; Spamton can just barely make out his reflection in it. “Tenna? [[CRT]]?” he asks uncertainly.

Tenna’s screen clicks back on and he laughs a bit too loudly, pulling away. “Sorry! Got a bit carried away there. Never mind all that!” He preens, adjusting his tie. “Do I look camera-ready?”

“You always look camera-ready.” Tenna laughs and, after taking a second to center himself, leads Spamton back onto the stage. His hand hovers down, almost as if reaching back for him, for just a moment before he’s back on, and Spamton lets him take the spotlight, utterly and thoroughly confused.

~ T ~

Tenna stares at the ceiling. He’d taken a glass of whiskey to his dressing room, skipping out on all but the obligatory post-show drinks. Now that he’s alone, out of the spotlight and free to drop the act, he fully realizes the rising terror in his chest. Quintuple-digit views. Even if the majority of that was Cyber City denizens, the fact was, people had been watching. People besides just Kris’s family. His collaboration with Spamton was turning out to be a rousing success and, in his excitement, he’d nearly said something. Something he couldn’t take back.

Staring at Spamton, taking his hands and thrumming with excitement, the words had bubbled up without warning: “I’m so happy, I could kiss you!”

Where had that come from? Yes, they’ve been spending a lot of time together, but it's been entirely because Tenna has wanted to see if Spamton has what it takes to make it in show business. So far, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’ as long as Tenna doesn’t put him in the quiz segments—he seems to struggle with those, but Mike had mentioned that it made him seem more ‘real’ to the audience, so he gets a pass on that. Tenna is just waiting for the right moment to pitch the contract. He’d drafted it up before Spamton had ever come to TV World: a permanent position on TV Time in exchange for his trade secrets. There was no way Spamton had become so famous overnight; there had to be a catch, a trick, something Tenna can use to keep the Dreemurrs looking at him.

He groans quietly, antennae drooping at the reminder. All the chaos of Spamton's arrival on set has been a lovely distraction, but the fact of the matter is that the Dreemurrs haven't been paying nearly as much attention to him as they usually do. In fact, views were on a pretty persistent decline in general with no sign of them improving. Hell, even when he's turned off, he has faint memories of idle conversation, Asgore saying something about 'getting an upgrade' or getting 'cable'. But none of this explains his near-outburst, though. Or why, the longer he thinks about it, the more it's true. He could’ve kissed him. Maybe it'd been nice. Hell, Spamton might even let him, considering how loose he got with his tongue during the Three-Martini Incident.

Tenna stands up, knocking back the last of his whiskey as he approaches the vanity mirror. He stares into it, pointing a finger at his reflection. “Get your wires straight, Ant,” he tells himself firmly. “This is business. Show business! Just get Spammy to sign that contract and you’ll both be making it big!” He pauses, then, starting at the reflection of his screen. In retrospect, Spamton had started flirting first, hadn’t he? “…You can use this,” he mutters, antennae perking. “Yeah. He’s already eating out of your hand. That’s your in, Ant.” He leans back with a soft laugh. “Time to lay on the charm.”

~ S ~

The phone calls are getting shorter. His benefactor seems to sound impatient these days, even if Spamton assures that everything’s still going according to plan. He keeps quiet about how much time he’s spending in TV World, if only because it shouldn’t be an issue, right? Still, a ball of anxiety seems to sit in his chest at any given moment, weighing down on his heart. Is he not doing enough? Maybe he should push harder about collaborations. Exclusive delivery deals with the Color Cafe—Swatch hadn’t been too interested, but maybe he just needs to push more? His branded bowties are doing well enough…

There’s a soft knock on his door, and he jolts upright, smoothing his hair over. “Come in!”

The door only opens a crack. “Boss wants ta see you,” a Zapper says, only poking his head in enough to deliver the message.

“Great! Be there in a [Giffy]!” Once the door closes, Spamton runs a hand down his face, pausing at the cracks that stretch from the corners of his mouth down to his chin. They’re a recent development, but his benefactor has reminded him multiple times that their help comes with certain caveats. Oh well. No one’s said anything yet, so maybe he can work it into his brand. He forces it out of his mind, making sure he looks presentable before heading out to find Tenna. It’s after hours, so he leaves behind his blazer and tie.

Tenna’s in his dressing room, same as usual, reclined on his couch with a smile and a cigar. “Sorry, Spammy, did I wake you up?”

“Nah, was just [Take a Load Off].” He eyes the setup of Tenna’s room. There’s a stack of papers on the coffee table, and Tenna’s kicked his feet up, crossing his ankles. But also… his tie and blazer are gone, as well. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, giving a peek of the hard plastic casing underneath. This feels like the beginning of an [18+!!!!] movie, but Spamton clears his throat and leans against the door. “Looks like you’re [settle for] the night.”

“Just about.” Tenna cocks his head and pats the sofa. “C’mon, don’t be a stranger! Wanted to talk to you about something.”

As soon as Spamton sits down, Tenna offers him a cigar, which he accepts. He can’t lie, he sees the appeal of these, especially in the sense of sharing them over a long talk.  “Okay, hit me with it, [[CRT]].”

“Well.” Tenna sets his cigar down in an ashtray on the table and grabs the stack of papers. “The show’s really been a hit since you’ve been here. And… I won’t lie, I’ve also personally enjoyed working with you. So I crunched numbers, did some digging around, and I’d like to offer you a permanent position.”

Spamton chokes on smoke, leaning over to hack into the open air and pound a fist on his chest. “P-permanent?!”

“You’ve got a knack for crowds.” Tenna leans in a bit, his smile turning coy. “And I have it on good authority that our audience likes some cohosts with chemistry.”

Okay, something’s definitely going on here. Tenna has a knack for giving words flourish, and the flourish on the word ‘chemistry’ seems… steamy, almost. “Like a house on fire, right, Ant?” Spamton tries to joke, cloaking his nervousness with a grin.

“Exactly! There’s just one little thing I’d need from you.” Tenna hands over the papers, leaning back and taking a long pull from his cigar as Spamton looks them over. “See, your rise to fame has been the talk of not just Cyber City, but TV World, too. I’m happy to give you a permanent spot on TV Time if you would just… give a little insight into your success, hm?”

Spamton freezes. “Ant… Tenna. Listen, I like ya and I’d love to help, but—”

“I know, I know.” Tenna raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Trade secrets are secrets for a reason, but I think it’s a fair trade, right?” When Spamton remains silent, he drops his hands again and shrinks half a foot. “I… can’t lie, Spammy. It’s been getting tough lately. Having you here has been a breath of fresh air, but I need to think long-term here. I just want to know how you do it.”

Spamton sets the contract down and sighs, taking a long pull from his cigar. “I can’t, Ant. It’s part of my [Deal].” They both fall silent for a long moment, and he can see Tenna shrink even more as the silence drags on. “…I’d be happy to help you any other way. Maybe some [Hot Tips!] on modernizing a bit? No offense, but the decor’s looking a bit dated.”

Tenna swells again, shoulders rising angrily. “I put those up myself!”

“Yeah, and they’re definitely ‘you’, but it’s a new millennium, Ant.” Spamton leans back, forcing himself to relax and push forward with his pivot. “No shame in a fresh coat of paint. And, uh, maybe getting some new flooring.”

Tenna deflates, reaching forward to grab his cigar and take a long drag. “…Maybe. So, uh… I’ll draft a new contract. And if you ever can tell me your secrets, well, I’ll be sure to make it worth your while, okay?”

Spamton nods, but he can’t hold back the relief that washes over him. Crisis momentarily averted. ‘Keep pivoting, Spamton,’ he thinks to himself, letting his eyes wander back to the patch of casing he can see under Tenna’s shirt. “Well, this [Stunning Views!] pretty worth the while.”

Tenna tilts his head to the side, then slowly looks down, following Spamton’s gaze. His screen flickers slightly into color bars before he laughs, reaching over to nudge Spamton’s shoulder. “You cad. It’s a good thing you know how to behave on set, otherwise you’d be killing me!” Spamton snickers right along with him, the tension completely evaporating from his shoulders.

~ T ~

Tenna hates to admit it, but the studio is starting to look brighter. Under Spamton’s advice, he’s ordered all of the tile flooring to be replaced. The red carpets leading into the studio are supposed to be deep-cleaned biweekly, but he learns the hard way that some of his crew think that a light pass with a vacuum cleaner is good enough. They’re promptly demoted. The curtains go through a thorough cleaning as well, and any that don’t survive are tossed out and repurposed to upholster the couches in the green room.

“Now this is a right breath of fresh air, innit?” Ramb chimes in from behind the Green Room bar. Fresh pennants are hanging above that spell out Ramb’s name now, declaring the bar as his. “Bang-up job that mailman of yours did.”

“That’s why I’m trying to keep him,” Tenna replies in a hushed voice.

He knows he can’t ask about the contract for another few days. If he pushes too much, Spamton might get frustrated and leave, and that just wouldn’t do. So he just keeps up the charm instead, working a bit of sweet talk in whenever he can. And Spamton… well, he eats it all up, giving him dazzling smiles and even some quips back of his own. It’s almost enough to make Tenna feel bad… almost.

“These contestants are, uh… [[Bad]],” Spamton says off-stage midway through a quiz show. His hair is sticking up a little weirdly—Mike says there’s an issue with the cooling system in the studio, so it’s a bit more humid than usual. Tenna might even dare to say that his hair has some natural waves to it.

“Well, they can’t all be winners,” Tenna agrees quietly, knocking back his styrofoam cup of coffee. “First round of drinks tonight will be on me for this one.”

Spamton puts a hand on his hip, staring up at him accusingly. “Y’know, Ant, I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that you [[Like and Subscribe!!]] me.”

Tenna touches his chest with a dramatic gasp. “Well, of course! You’ve been a great asset to the show, my friend.”

Spamton squints at him. “Sure. Well, [$1] of these days, you’re gonna have to let me [Pay].”

“One of these days.” Tenna crosses his fingers behind his back. Maybe he can lay off for a bit, but as long as he plays the role of gracious host, Spamton will have to give in eventually.

~ S ~

It’s becoming… [alot] a lot. Tenna is so at[Tenna]tive ever since the rejected contract, and he seems to take a lot of opportunities to shed his jacket, dress down, and overall seem… flirtier. And while Spamton doesn’t mind taking in eyefuls whenever he can, after two days of this, it's starting to feel like Tenna’s teasing him a little. And not in the fun way. He stares into the mirror, stares at the strange cracks in his face that make his jaw feel stiff, and recounts the smug smile on Tenna’s face when he’d rested his hand between Spamton’s shoulders for just a little too long after they’d announced the winners of the quiz show.

His benefactor’s calls are getting shorter, too, more demanding, more more more. He’s not doing enough. He’s supposed to be getting [[Big]]. Getting [[Hyperlink Blocked]] (Huh? He tries to think of what his benefactor wants, but while he can see the words, spell them out in his mind, something in him refuses to verbalize it). But here he is, parading around on stage and giving away cars (only two so far, but still), feeling progressively more hollow every time Tenna would give him that Look. Antennae bent towards him, shifting as if trying to feel out his shape, propping his head in his hands like a lovelorn [[Romance Heroine]].

…The interjections are getting worse, too. It’s like he can barely string together a coherent thought without some kind of reference popping in. It takes effort and concentration to say what he wants to say, and even then, his cadence jumps around sometimes. “It’s fine,” he says as he paces his dressing room. “It’s fine. Just a bit more. I just have to make it [[Big]]. It’s worth it - it’s worth it - it’s worth it.”

There’s a knock on his door, and he steels himself for yet more saccharine charm. Instead, Ramb sticks his head in. “Boss wants to talk if you have a minute.”

Spamton’s shoulders rise. He can’t do this. Not right now. “…Not [Tonight Only!]. Not, uh… not feeling too [Hot Hot Hot!]. I’ll see ‘im in the morning, okay?”

Ramb is silent for a second before he says, “Alright. Cheers, then.” The door closes, and Spamton collapses on his couch, grabbing a cigarette from his jacket and lighting up like muscle memory. He needs to not think for a while. But he can’t watch TV, every program has Tenna’s face on it. And he can’t play any of the games because… well, frankly, he’s never been good at them. He tried to play against that stupid clown from Card Castle once, and that little freak had run circles around him... and also helped him realize that he really doesn't like clowns in general. Regardless, he resigns himself to staring at the ceiling until the speckled panels above start to swim and dance like TV static.

He doesn’t move again until his cigarette burns down to the filter, leaving ash between his fingers.

~ T ~

Something’s wrong. Ramb returns to Tenna saying that Spamton’s not feeling well, and when they meet up in the morning, the salesman looks like he’s aged five years overnight. He has bags under his eyes—nothing hair and makeup can’t take care of, but it looks so… wrong on him. “Everything okay, Spammy?”

Spamton doesn’t respond for a second, and Tenna could swear that he frowns at the nickname. “Ah, y’know. [Sales Starting At 50% Off!] starting to catch up to me. I’ll be on it for the show.” Tenna frowns as well, but he can’t pry; his favorite tailcoat caught a snag in it yesterday and he needs time to go make sure it’s ready for today. The show goes on without a hitch, although something about his co-host’s movements seems jerky. Like he’s half-awake, startled by every cue. Once the show’s over, Spamton flees back to his dressing room, saying he needs to freshen up.

Tenna does the same, unable to stop the rising dread in his chest. Is Spamton having second thoughts about this? Did he push too far after all? Has he been laying it on too thick? The longer he sits in his dressing room, the more his mind spirals. If he leaves, it’s all over. He might be able to coast by on residuals, but they’ll just go right back to the same reruns, and Toriel and Asgore might get bored eventually. “I need some air,” he says to himself eventually, feeling his chest tighten in panic.

He storms to the door and swings it open just to find Spamton standing on the other side, one hand poised to knock. They both freeze, staring for a moment, before Spamton smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey. Wanna take a ride? [Feel the sweet breeze]?”

“Uh… actually, I was just about to step out for some fresh air. But if you're leaving, too, I could stand to get out for a bit.” Tenna tries to shrug off the tension as he taps his receiver. “Mike, I’m stepping out for a bit. Make sure the news goes on at six on the dot.” Then, he grabs his jacket and follows Spamton out of the studio.

Spamton drives him back towards Cyber City, back towards that overlook where they’d gone just a few days into their partnership. Once they arrive, he climbs onto the hood of the cungadero, lying flat on his back and staring up at the sky. Tenna joins him, making sure to shrink so he’s not taking up the entire windshield, too. “Needed to [Get Out Of Town!], y’know?” Spamton says after a second, digging into his jacket for his cigarettes and silently offering Tenna one.

Tenna respectfully but silently declines. “Seems like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Yeah.” Spamton doesn’t elaborate as he takes a long drag, staring up at the scanlines in the sky. Tenna twiddles his thumbs in the silence, the sounds of the city loud enough to hear even from this distance. Finally, Spamton sighs heavily. “Listen… [Don’t] think I don’t [Have A Clue] what you’re doing.” Tenna glances at him, head tilting in confusion. “I know you should never mix [Sunday Business] with [[Friendship]]. But I have liked working with you. It’s just… if you’re gonna [Use] me, just be [Honest] about it. Don’t pretend to be my [free friend finder!] just for a boost.”

Tenna’s mind goes blank. Below them, the sound of traffic rises slightly, but in the silence between them, it’s deafening.

~ S ~

Spamton looks over at Tenna to see that his screen has gone completely black. “[[CRT?]]” he asks quietly, fully sitting up when he sees Tenna’s body start to shake.

“I… oh. I, haha, I guess… I, uh.” Tenna suddenly drops his head in his hands, shoulders heaving. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I knew I should have laid off, I… I really bungled this one! Hahaha! Geez, Spammy, I… I like working with you, too! You bring so many fresh ideas and you make me laugh and things just seem so much more exciting when you’re around, but—” Tenna slowly shrinks down, more than Spamton’s ever seen him do before, until he’s barely two feet tall. “…Things aren’t good. That quintuple-view show was a once in a lifetime event, but people aren't watching as much anymore. And… I think it’s only a matter of time before they stop watching entirely. And if that happens… what happens to me?”

Spamton is frozen on the hood of the cungadero, brows screwing together tighter and tighter the more Tenna talks.

“I just thought if—if I figure out how you did it, then maybe I can… salvage something. You know, in business, a ‘no’ is just a ‘yes’ that hasn’t been realized yet, but I… I hoped we were close enough for you to know…” Tenna shakes his head, static dripping from his screen to land on the hood and slide off like water. “I’m not pretending. I want to think we’re friends, really. I guess I’m just a little… desperate.”

“Geez, Ant,” Spamton says, glancing away. “It’s… not that I don’t wanna help. But like I said, I can’t. This deal I made… it’s exclusive. And my, uh… benefactor… is pretty strict. But hey, there’s always a downturn. Nothing you can’t make it through! I mean, TV’s been around forever.” Tentatively, he reaches out to press his hand against Tenna’s back, feeling him jolt a little at the touch. “So trust me, okay? Even if I can’t tell you that, I’ve got plenty of other tricks.”

Tenna grows again. Just by half a foot, but it’s an improvement. “…I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t… care about you. I do.”

“I’d like to think so. But in [The] [City], people do that, y’know. It’s all about connections.” Spamton draws back with a soft laugh. “But I know you’re not like that. I was probably a little harsh.”

Tenna sniffs loudly. “Hah. Sometimes… I need that. The rude awakenings. It’s easy to get carried away.”

“We’ll get them watching you again. Promise.” They fall into silence, and Tenna gradually grows again as he calms down. Once he’s back to his normal height, they head back to the studio, and Spamton can’t help but smile. This is how it’s supposed to be; the two of them against the world, Tenna’s gentle laughing ringing out from the passenger’s seat.

~ S ~

There’s another party at Queen’s mansion. This time, the invitation comes courtesy of Swatch, who is standing in the Green Room when Ramb leads Spamton to it. “[[Easel]]!” Spamton says, unable to hide a warm smile. “What brings you all the way [Before A Live Studio Audience!], huh?”

Swatch is… well, Spamton hesitates to say that they’re friends. He wants to think that they are; whenever he stops by the Cafe and it’s not busy, they end up talking sometimes for a good half an hour at a time. Swatch is a damn good listener. But they never really talk outside of that; Swatch is 100% dedicated to being Queen’s head butler. Regardless, Swatch nods coolly at him, hands folded behind his back. His mohawk has gotten shorter, but it’s still immaculately styled. “Hello, Mr. Spamton. I came to extend an invitation directly from Our Lady Grace.”

“Another [Life Of The Party], huh?”

Swatch tilts his head slightly. “Yes, although for you and your partner, it is also quite a lucrative business deal.”

“A business deal?” Spamton turns to smile at Tenna, who’s adjusting his tie as he enters the Green Room.

“Ah, good.” Swatch nods to him in greeting. “Hello, Mr. Tenna. Given that you’ve capitalized on her most successful businessman, Our Queen wanted to extend an invitation to be the live entertainment at a party next week.”

Tenna’s antennae straighten up. “Wow! I, uh, well—”

Spamton presses his hand against Tenna’s leg and gently interrupts, “We’d just need a bit to figure out what segments to do. You’ve got a contract drawn up already?”

Swatch snaps his fingers, and a digital contract appears in the air. There’s nothing too special about it: provide two hours worth of entertainment, the first drink and round of appetizers are free, and if they get too boring, Queen will dunk them in the acid pool. All standard stuff, really. Swatch lowers his hand, offering the contract down to Spamton. “Do let us know by the end of the day, if possible.”

Spamton swipes the contract, downloading it for his personal use. “Sure thing! And hey, good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Swatch bows courteously before departing.

Spamton turns to wink at Tenna. “Don’t you love when opportunities just fall in your lap? We’ve got this in [The] bag.”

Tenna glances down at him for a long second before he smiles brilliantly. “Absolutely, partner.”

~ T ~

They work out a deal with Queen: they’ll provide live entertainment if they can treat it like a fundraiser. All the changes to the studio aren’t coming cheap, after all. Luckily, Queen agrees, if only because it “Seems Cool”. Cyber City’s crowds are a bit tough at first, and Tenna’s never more thankful to have Spamton as a co-host. If his jokes fall flat, Spamton immediately props them back up, fine-tunes them, and gets the crowd laughing easily. Eventually, he doesn’t even need to do that as, apparently, some of the people in attendance at this party find ‘retro’ cute.

In the break between segments, Spamton’s had a martini and a shot of some neon green concoction, and he starts to pull away to get another drink before Tenna grabs his arm. “I know this is a party, but we still have a show to do,” he reminds Spamton gently, adding some force behind his words. He’s had a drink tonight, too, mostly because it was part of the contract that they both got a freebie, but he sipped it slowly, ensuring he’d only get a mild buzz.

“Damn!” Spamton curses quietly, covering his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Damn. [Right]. Not usually in charge of these things. Alright.”

“I’ll get you some water.” Tenna pulls back, carefully working through the crowd to the bar. He gets passing compliments and even swears someone whistles at him? This crowd is so strange. When he returns to Spamton’s side, his cohost is chatting up a strange, triangle-headed man who leans in to dramatically whisper that he’s a ‘hacker’, whatever that means. But Spamton waves him off, then grabs Tenna’s wrist and points towards their little stage setup. They’re settled at just over $19,000 so far. “That’s a lot of zeroes,” Tenna mutters in awe.

Spamton snickers, gesturing for him to lean down. “I got an idea on how to boost those numbers even more,” he says with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “But only if you’re down for chicanery.”

“Is that the same as shenanigans? What’s the idea?”

Spamton pulls him down further, something acidic on his breath. “How about… if we hit 20,000, I kiss you [Right] on [The] [Mouth].”

Tenna’s screen goes black for a second. There’s no way that he heard that right. “Right on the mouth?”

Spamton reaches up to tap his screen. “Right on [The] [Mouth].”

Maybe it’s that mild buzz that wears him down, because Tenna laughs. “Alright. What the hell. But you’re assuming that we can even hit 20,000.” Spamton grins at him knowingly.

It takes all of ten minutes for them to hit the goal. When Spamton had grabbed the mic and announced his gambit, offering to ‘sweeten the pot’ for the audience, they’d reacted with cheers, laughter, and clapping. But the segment otherwise goes on all according to Tenna’s meticulous planning. He’s been mildly accused of being a bit controlling, but he prefers to think of it as running a tight ship.

But Tenna is just starting to explain the rules of the last physical challenge when the crowd bursts into gregarious cheering. He turns to look at the ticker board above them, which now proudly declares “$20,108”. Spamton jumps up from his chair, pumping a fist as he yells, “Hell yeah! Here we go, [ladies & germs]!” Tenna laughs as well, clapping his hands in front of his face. That’s a huge number. God, he didn’t think they’d actually—

He’s yanked downwards suddenly. Spamton’s wrapped his tie around his fist, pulling him down with that same mischievous look. Tenna is leaning down a bit awkwardly, but he doesn’t have much time to consider the position before hands grip the sides of his head and lips press against his. There’s a quiet ‘zzip!’ in the air of static electricity passing between his screen and… well, whatever it is that Spamton’s made of (data? Is that right?), nearly drowned out by the sound of the audience cheering even louder.

Suddenly, he’s pushed back, released, and he watches dumbfoundedly as Spamton raises his hands in victory. “Give it up for Mr. Ant Tenna’s TV Time!” he yells over the crowd, grinning over at Tenna.

~ S ~

The party wraps up pretty quickly from there. To Tenna’s credit, he bounces back quickly from Spamton’s gambit and they get through the physical challenge without issue. Once he wraps up, thanking everyone for coming, he beelines to the bar, Spamton following right on his heels. “Damn, Ant! What a turnout!”

Tenna laughs again, a bit softer this time, and gestures for a shot from the bartender. Then he pauses and gestures for two instead, sliding one over to Spamton and raising his glass. “Cheers,” he says. “For the show of a lifetime.”

“Cheers!” Spamton clinks their glasses together and knocks the shot back, coughing at the burn of battery acid. There’s a weird buzz at this side and, when he glances up to see Tenna’s screen has switched over to color bars, he can’t help but laugh. “Oh! Yeah, should’ve warned you. Queen loves her battery [burning] acid, but it sure does give drinks a kick.”

Tenna clicks back on and coughs. “C-clearly.” Spamton reaches over to pat his back. Tenna glances at him with a strange smile before turning back to the bartender and gesturing for some water. “So…” He starts, shoulders rising a bit. Is he… embarrassed? “How did you know that would work?”

Spamton shrugs. “[ladies & germs!] are [Fellow Freaks], Tenna. I dunno [[WHY]] they wanna see guys kissing so badly, but they just do.” Tenna shakes his head with a soft huff and, once the water arrives, chugs half of it in one go. “…I can see about getting you [A Ride around Town] back to [The] studio if you want.”

“Just for me?” Tenna tilts his head slightly. “You’re not coming?”

“Sorry, Ant. After tonight, my bed’s calling my name.” Tenna lowers his head and keeps sipping his water, and Spamton finds himself glued to the bar stool, unsure of what to do. It’s not that difficult to commute between TV World and Cyber City, really; he’s been spending more time in the former, but he still comes back when he gets tired of sleeping on a couch. His room here is pretty nice, aside from the fact that it faces the heart of downtown and sometimes the sound of traffic screeches in the distance like a metallic lullaby.

But his bed more than makes up for it. A Queen-sized mattress (of course it is), firm yet plush enough to feel like he’s floating. Of course, he’s not exactly a big guy, so the mattress is huge to him, giving him plenty of room to stretch out—

An idea pops into his head. “…Or… you could crash at my place instead.”

Tenna freezes, water dribbling from his mouth. “Oh—jeez—” He grabs some napkins to mop it up. “You can’t just throw that on a guy, Spammy! Besides, TV waits for no one! I still have shows to do tomorrow.”

“They can’t just do some reruns [in the morning]?”

“I… well…” Protests start and stop as Tenna stares at the bar top, his antennae bent in the way they do when he’s thinking really hard about something. It’s cute. “I… suppose… the Dreemurrs don’t usually watch first thing in the morning anyway. Especially if they’re going to service.”

Spamton nods. He has no idea what that means—although an image of himself with little angel wings pops into his head and he thinks he gets the idea—but he leans forward with a sly grin. “I’ve got plenty of room. [bed] should be big enough for you, and I can, uh… take [The] couch.” The thought negates the smug satisfaction of getting Tenna to spend a night in Cyber City, but hey, it’s a minor sacrifice.

Tenna muses for a second before he knocks back the last of his water. “You know what? Sure.”

~ T ~

Spamton leads Tenna through the halls of Queen’s mansion. The walls are lined with photos of herself, painted regally in Renaissance style. In the distance, he hears something crash, and a flood of Swatchlings screech and race down the hallway in such a number that they have to press against the wall to keep from being run over. “Someone didn’t [Respect The Pottery],” Spamton explains, shaking his head.

Tenna nods, not questioning it. Eventually, Spamton stops at a door on the third floor, which opens with a flourish of a card against a key pad. When the lights bloom on, Tenna is stunned; the place is lavishly decorated in tones of red and gold. One of the walls is entirely taken up by a window, giving a gorgeous view of the City below them. “Wow!”

“Queen’s crazy, but damn if she doesn’t know how to decorate.” Spamton locks the door behind him and shrugs off his blazer while Tenna is taking in the view underneath them. “But hey, we’re even [Right now!]. I know your studio inside and out at this point, you might as well get to see where my [Magic] happens.”

The walls have a few promotional posters stuck on them—Tenna’s heart swells when he recognizes their collaboration poster, still fresh and crisp, right above a sturdy wooden desk—and a few awards line a shelf by the front door. “Does everyone here have a room like this?”

“Well, only [The] [high roller(s)!] get these views. But if you want a place here, I could probably put in a good word for you.”

Tenna feels more heat escaping from his vents at the thought. “Haha. I think my dressing room is just fine, but thank you.” He raises his hands, twiddles his thumbs, and finally turns with a sigh, unable to hold back anymore. “Hey. So… about what happened on stage.”

Spamton pauses, having been in the middle of unlacing his shoes and kicking them off. “…On stage…? Oh. Hey, you said you were up for that.”

“I know, I know. I just…” Tenna glances aside, his synthetic heart thumping in his chest. “I guess I didn’t expect that to be how… I mean, that you’d…”

Spamton starts laughing, covering his mouth. “How you expected it to happen, you mean?!”

“Stop laughing at me!”

That just makes the salesman laugh even louder, but he does manage to calm himself down after a second. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I mean, I am, but not like...” He sighs, jumping up to sit on the edge of the bed. “[The] drinks made me a bit bold, I’ll admit. But… well, you remember. [3 for One Special] martinis, barely [$3] days into knowing each other, and you had me falling for you.” He winks.

Tenna would roll his eyes if he could. As it stands, his antennae do a lazy circle above his head, instead. “Haha, very funny. I just figured that’s how you were with people! You’ve got that charm.”

“Aw, thanks, partner.”

Tenna twiddles his thumbs some more. “…Would you do it again? Without the fundraising incentive?”

The room goes deathly silent. Spamton’s still smiling impishly, but his eyes have widened. Tenna’s kicking himself, but the question needs to be asked. “…Do you want me to?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question!”

Spamton raises his hands. “Ant, I mean it.” His voice grows softer. “Do you want me to?”

Tenna’s shoulders relax as he forces himself to take a breath and think about it. And the more he thinks about it, the more he can see the anxious energy creeping into Spamton’s shoulders, the way his smile twists into something sincere and, damn, maybe even excited? Does Tenna want him to? He sees one of Spamton’s hands reach towards him, and he obeys the silent call. “I think I do, actually.”

Fingers grip his tie and yank him down. “Well, then,” is all he hears before Spamton’s lips are on his again.

It’s hard to think about anything else after that.

~ S ~

The wires whine and [Sing] under his fingers.

…What sounds like a loud click followed by a strange buzzing sound that reverberates through his entire body startles him awake hours later. “Geez. Way to give a guy at [HeartAttack],” Spamton grumbles, pressing against pliable plastic casing.

“Sorry. Degaussing. A necessary evil.” Tenna sounds apologetic enough even as he yawns, stretching idly before pulling him closer. “Mm. Always feel like a million bucks after, though.”

“Just a [million]? After [The] [[On A Saturday Night]] we’ve had, you should feel like a [billion].”

Tenna’s voice turns coy. “Well... a little, maybe.” They lie together for what feels like hours, enough for Spamton to start drifting off again… until Tenna suddenly jolts upward. “Oh! What time is it?! Shoot!”

“They can play reruns, Ant,” Spamton calls, turning onto his back while his co-host scrambles out of bed.

“It’s almost noon! They’ll be coming home from the diner, and then Asgore will want to catch up on golf—agh! Why didn’t I set an alarm?!” Spamton finally opens his eyes to see Tenna reaching up above the dresser, pulling his tie off the top. “How did you even manage to throw this up here?”

Spamton reaches over to grab his cigarettes, lighting up while Tenna scrambles to gather his things. And when he bends over to put his pants on, Spamton unashamedly ogles his ass and decides that the Queen-sized bed is, in fact, perfect.

~ T ~

Ramb’s expression seems a lot more smug when they scramble back into the Green Room, having gotten back just after the news ended. He can’t know, right? Before leaving Spamton’s room, Tenna made sure that he was fully dressed, completely put-together, the epitome of collected. There was no way he knew. “How’d the show go?” one of the stage-managing Pippins asks during pre-show checks, thankfully distracting him.

“Oh, it was amazing!” Tenna beams, sipping his coffee and trying to hold back a grimace. Spamton didn’t click his chest plating back quite right, given that they were in a rush to get back to TV World. He’ll have to do a little self-maintenance later. Later… ugh. He and Spamton are going to have to talk about this. There’s a huge difference between playful flirting and, well… what they’ve done. He recalls a tongue tracing his fangs and can feel his screen tinge pink, so he forces it out of his mind. “Anyway! What’s on the schedule today?”

Tenna is good at a lot of things. Throwing himself into work to avoid thinking about other things is near the top of the list. And they have to scramble a bit to make sure everything happens on time since he wasn’t here early enough to look things over. But eventually, the TV turns off, the Dreemurrs go to bed, and everyone in TV World breathes a little easier. “A professional showman through and through.” Spamton creeps up on Tenna in the Green Room with a knowing smile.

“Try hosting a variety show when you’re hungover and half-dead. Compared to that, a little schedule mishap is nothing.”

Spamton glances around before asking, “Just a schedule mishap? You sure you’re not a bit tuckered out from some… extracurriculars?”

Tenna flushes and hushes him. There are still a few people lingering in the Green Room, and although a few of them have been giving him glances all day, they don’t seem to have heard anything just now. “Not here! We’ll talk about that. Later. For now, I, uh… have to do some cleaning up. See you in the morning, partner!” He high-tails it out of there, slams the door to his dressing room, and pulls off his shirt. There are little bite marks all over his shoulders, and—yep, the bottom right corner of his chest plate didn’t snap in correctly.

With a sigh and a grimace, Tenna gets to work clicking it back in place, trying to ignore the weird flutter in his chest at the memory of much smaller hands in place of his own.

~ S ~

“Oh, you screwed up this time.” Spamton stares at himself in the mirror, fingers pressed against the surface to point accusingly at himself. Smoke wafts from the cigarette pinched between them. “[The] kiss would’ve been fine, Spamton, but did you have to go and [Refreshing night’s sleep] with the guy? [Right now!] he’s probably wigged out. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

He stops, stares at himself for another second, then finally pulls away. He collapses back into the vanity chair and drags his free hand through his hair. He’d seen the opportunity. He really had just wanted the excuse to kiss Tenna; he hadn’t expected the TV host to ask for seconds. Or to welcome him unbuttoning his shirt, or… a flash of conversation replays in his head:

“Did you just lick my teeth?”

“How [The] hell can I resist when you’ve got those fangs?”

“Haha! I always thought Shuttah was having me on about the fangs being popular.”

“Well, trust me, [Big] guy, they’re definitely boosting your approval ratings.”

Spamton tilts his head back. “Stupid. You couldn’t’ve been normal about it, at least?” He stares up at the ceiling, the spackled tiling, and mumbles, “…God, it was worth it, though.” Because how else would he have learned that his tongue can’t quite wrap around one of Tenna’s fangs, but can get damn near close? He smacks his forehead with his palm. Things are already awkward and potentially partnership-ruining, there’s no need to make it worse by reminiscing about sleeping with his cohost. He needs a distraction. So he grabs his blazer and slings it on as he heads out of his dressing room and to the Green Room.

“Oh, that’s cheating!” He hears Lanino cry as he rounds the corner.

“No,” Elnina laughs back, leaning over to pinch his cheek. “You just need to learn how to boost.”

Spamton stands in the hallway and watches. They’re fixated on a racing game, and judging from the way she’s gloating, Elnina’s in the lead. He can see Lanino’s shoulders tense, focused on trying to catch up. The way they giggle and nudge each other is sickeningly cute to watch. He’s heard their slogan from pretty much everyone who works here: “The weather always sticks together.”

“Up for a game?” Spamton jolts slightly at hearing Ramb’s voice from the bar. The Plugmookboy is leaning against the bar top to look at him. “They’d probably tag you in. That one’s four players.”

“Oh—nah,” Spamton says, waving his hands. “Always appreciated racing [MORE] as a spectator sport.”

Elnina cheers when she wins, throwing the controller down and pumping her fists before reaching over to smooth over Lanino’s pompadour. “Oh, my sunshine, you did better that time! You know I’m happy to give you some tips.”

Lanino leans back. From his body language, he’s sulking a little. “…Please.” When Spamton approaches the couch to watch, they both greet him with pleasant smiles and nods before focusing right back on the game. She points out when to press buttons for boosts and how to time certain jumps, and it’s so horribly domestic that Spamton can’t help but smile, too.

~ T ~

Queen has requested Spamton’s presence for some financial advice, so he packs up for a day and heads back to the City. Tenna has still done a glorious job of avoiding talking about what happened the night of the show. Still, Spamton’s only gone for an hour or two before Tenna tries to ask him something and, hearing only silence in return, looks down and sees no one is there. And, worst of all, he dares to call his absentee cohost ‘Spammy’. The nickname has been private, just between them, but when he hears a Pippins mutter “Oof” under their breath, he knows he’s messed up.

“H-hey, it happens! Easy mistake!” Tenna says defensively, his antennae bending indignantly. “Whatever. Back to work!” The rest of the show goes by without a hitch, and Tenna waits until the stage clears out before tilting his head up. “Mike? Got a minute?”

There’s some shuffling before a sign drops down from the ceiling. There are three options with little boxes next to them: Talk, Listen, and Security. Just as Tenna starts patting his pockets for a pen, a red Sharpie drops down next to the sign. He swears, Mike thinks of everything. He ticks off ‘Listen’, and the sign shoots back up to the ceiling. Then, a red neon checkmark sign drops down next.

He doesn’t talk to Mike much outside of stage directions. Mike has been around since Tenna started this whole thing, an omniscient presence that helps ensure things run smoothly. But sometimes, it helps to have a neutral ear about things, and Mike… well, he seems to know exactly when Tenna wants a sounding board or if he needs actual advice. Tenna heads towards the closed-off, secret dressing room tucked away in a deep corner of the studio and thanks his lucky stars that he has the best stage manager ever.

Mike’s wearing the cat costume today, which Tenna has always found a bit odd. But hey, in show business, who doesn’t have weird quirks? “I swear I didn’t mean for things to go this far,” Tenna says once he’s settled onto a couch, propping his head in his hands. “I really thought it would be easy. Just sweet talk him a bit, get him to sign the contract, and we both win, right?” Mike’s only response was a little tilt of his head, his multi-colored eyes staring blankly at him. “But he had to go and be so… so…” Tenna sighs, letting himself start downright pouting. “Now I… genuinely want him here. I like sharing the stage with him. He’s flashy and new. He’s… the future, I suppose.”

Mike idly scratches behind his ear with his wrist, and the sounds echo through the speakers set up in the corners as a quiet brushing sound. It’s not quite loud enough to be grating, thankfully.

“Just… what would people say? Mr. Ant Tenna shacking up with his most popular collaborator?” Tenna sighs again. “…Maybe it’d boost views. People paid a lot just to see us kiss for some reason.”

He hears something clatter in a back room. Mike sits upright, stiff as a board, as the speakers rustle for a moment. “Sorry, Tenna,” Mike’s voice says from the speakers—one of them, anyway, because some days he has an accent, and some days he doesn’t. “I swear we’ve got ghosts here. Anyway… either way, you’ve got to cover your bases. Whether you break it off or not, make sure the show’s not going to suffer for it, right?”

“Right.” Tenna gives himself another couple of seconds to sulk before sitting upright. “I’ve never been great with the whole interpersonal confrontation thing.”

“Just treat it like a regular contract deal.”

Tenna stands up, adjusting his tailcoat. “…Okay. Thanks, Mike.”

“I know you said you just needed me to listen. I hope you don’t mind the advice.”

“I never mind your advice. Have a good night.”

When Tenna leaves Mike’s room, he swears that someone whisper-yells “WHAT???” from the back room.

~ S ~

It’s… bittersweet, walking back into his room at Queen’s Castle alone. The bed’s still a bit messy from his and Tenna’s quick escape the night of the live show. Spamton sighs, throwing his keycard on the desk before getting to work undressing. It’s too late to go back to TV World; he’s dead tired from a day of crunching numbers, dodging too-invasive questions about how his business runs, and… well, when he’d arrived, one of the Addisons had set up a stall by the castle, trying to toe the property line. Their eyes had met for just a second, and he’d seen a flash of something in their face.

He was briefly filled with the misguided hope that it was regret. That, perhaps, they’d approach and say something, anything. But instead, they had looked away, plastered that fake smile back on their face, and kept on selling.

‘Good riddance,’ he’d thought as he adjusted his coat and headed up the red carpet to Queen’s Castle. ‘Good riddance—good riddance—good riddance—’ He’d come to a dead stop just outside the Castle’s entrance and smacked himself in the temple with the palm of his hand. After assuring his Swatchling guide that he was okay, he’d continued onward as normal. But now that he's free of work, alone with his thoughts, terror rises in the back of his throat. What the hell was that? It was like the thought had caught in a feedback loop, echoing in his ears, an error sound beeping underneath the flow of words.

He’s barely in his room for ten seconds before the phone rings. He steels himself and answers, although it’s the same kind of call as before: status update, reminders of his job, and statements that sound vaguely like threats. Although when he asks if there’s anything else, the voice pauses. “…no distractions.”

“Of course not. I’m a professional!” Spamton laughs weakly, but the voice on the other end doesn’t say anything else. Instead, there are a few seconds of silence before the line clicks and goes dead. Spamton sets the phone on the cradle and collapses onto his bed with a groan. No distractions. And Tenna… is a distraction, he figures. Although is he, really? The longer they work together, the more natural it feels. The less he really has to worry about trying so hard. Sleeping together is definitely a turn of events, but it’s nothing they can’t come to some kind of agreement on. ‘Assuming [[You too can]] get him to even [LOOK] at you again,’ he thinks to himself with a groan.

He barely sleeps. On the bright side, it means that he can set back out to TV World first thing in the morning. He beelines for the coffee maker and chugs two cups down while the other stars filter in. Despite his polite greetings to them, he internally steels himself for a very, very long day.

~ T ~

“Hey, Ant.” Tenna grimaces to himself. The Dreemurrs had stayed up late today, and it’s well past midnight. A few Pippins are playing a button-masher fighting game, and Tenna is starting to nod off watching them, so he's just moved to stand up when Spamton reaches over to nudge his shoulder. His co-host seems exhausted, with dark bags under his eyes. He's been going through coffee like it's water all day; any moment that he wasn’t on camera, he was leaning against a desk or a podium. “If I sit, I’m not getting back up,” he’d said when a Pippins had offered to get him a chair.

“Hey, partner,” Tenna greets.

Spamton looks at him oddly. “Want some company back to [The] dressing rooms?”

“Oh, no, stay out here, enjoy the games—”

Spamton’s hand on his shoulder isn’t nudging anymore. It’s a full-on iron-clad grip. “[But wait! There’s more!] I insist.”

One of the Pippins gives him a side-eye, and Tenna feels hot air blowing out of his vents. “Well… why not, then?” Spamton nods decisively and jumps off the couch, staring expectantly until Tenna joins him. The salesman silently leads him to his dressing room, opens the door, and gestures for him to enter. Tenna nods his thanks, trying to stifle the ball of dread sitting in his chest.

As soon as the door closes, Spamton leans against it and lights up a cigarette. “Listen, [[CRT]], I’m too tired to be nice [Right] [Right now!], so if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

“…Did you mean to say ‘right’ twice?”

Spamton levels him with an unamused look. If Tenna could sweat, he would right now, but as it stands, his shoulders drop and he sighs, letting his screen go blank. Silence drags on between them before Spamton huffs. “Geez. If I’d known [Making] would be such a [Big] [Deal], I wouldn’t have pushed it. But it takes [2] to tango, you know!”

“I know!” Tenna finally finds words, looking up as his screen blares. “I know. Jeez. Y’know, Spamton, I pride myself on my professionalism, and what happened in Cyber City was not professional. Pardon me for being in uncharted territory here! Sleeping with my cohost—this is a contractual nightmare!”

Spamton blows out a cloud of smoke, his brows drawn in a way that looks utterly unimpressed. “…How? It was just a bit of [Fun for the—]” Spamton stops short, frowning as he touches his throat. After a second, he tries again, his voice a bit strained. “…Fun. No harm in that.”

“We’re cohosts, Spamton.” Tenna sits down on the couch, waving his hands. “It’s… it could be seen as abuse of power, or favoritism!”

“You mean I’m not your favorite? ‘Cause Elnina said as much.”

Tenna freezes. A flicker of a smirk graces Spamton’s face before it disappears again. “I… damn it. Okay, yes, I… do like you a bit more than I probably should on a professional level.” Tenna hangs his head. “And on a personal level, too. But still… it’s best if it never happens again.”

The words hang in the air.

~ S ~

It’s a bluff. At least, that’s what Spamton’s choosing to believe, because the way Tenna says that… well, he’s having trouble believing it. Spamton mulls it over, finally pushing off the door to join Tenna on the couch and putting out his finished cigarette. He then immediately pulls the carton back out to light up another. “Want [1]? I know you’re a [Genuine Imported Cuban Cigars!] guy, but think of it as a peace offering.”

Tenna hesitates, then sighs. “Sure.”

But just as he’s reaching into his coat for a lighter, Spamton says, “Here, I’ve got it.” Moment of truth. He reaches up to grab Tenna’s tie, pulling him down until they’re nearly face-to-face. Tenna flails slightly, starting to sputter something indignantly, before Spamton holds him steady, using his own cigarette to light Tenna’s. It takes precious seconds for it to catch, and Tenna’s screen grows more and more pink the longer they sit there, face-to-face and so close that Spamton can hear the high-pitched whine from the screen. “There,” Spamton says, unable to hide his smugness as he leans back. “[On the house].”

“A bit unnecessary, don’t you think?” Tenna mumbles. He clutches his knee with his free hand, his body language stiff and utterly flustered. Bluff: called.

“What? Just a [HonestMan] sharing his [While supplies last!].” Tenna grumbles quietly but drops the argument. To drive the point home, Spamton asks with a bit of sweet insincerity, “Strictly business from here on out, [Right]?”

“R-right.” Tenna takes a long drag before his shoulders puff up in bravado, and he stands up. “It’s high time we remembered that this is, in fact, a business, and I am nothing but professional. So thank you for the cigarette, but it’s getting late. I will see you in the morning, cohost.” Spamton raises his brows and watches as Tenna heads to the door. He turns on his heel to point at Spamton with two fingers and repeat, “Nothing but professional!” before he steps outside, closing the door loudly behind him.

Spamton sighs, pulls up his sleeve, and looks down at his watch. He can faintly hear shoes clicking down the hallway. One, two, three, four, five…

He counts down nearly ten seconds before footsteps hurry back to his door and Tenna bursts inside, his antennae bent in indignation. “Damn you,” he hisses, barely making sure the door is closed behind him before he slides to his knees in front of Spamton. His antennae droop in shame. “I lied, I can’t be professional. Not about this. Cyber City was fun!” The word pops up on his screen like a bright red bubble.

Spamton fights not to laugh, reaching up to rest his hand on top of Tenna’s head, dangerously close to the antennae. “Hey, nothing to be ashamed about, [[CRT]].” Tenna rests his head on Spamton’s lap like a sad puppy. Or, it would be sad if it wasn’t so satisfying to be [Right]. “You’re [Large and In Charge] of this whole place. You make [The] rules here. There’s nothing wrong with a nice [Splurge] once in a while.”

Tenna mulls that over for a second. “…You’re right. TV World is mine. It doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks about how I run things, does it? I’m in charge.” When Spamton nods, Tenna leans back, sitting upright. His screen turns to static, his nose disappearing to leave behind a flat surface. “And I think… you need that reminder just as much as I do.”

“Wait—” What?

Before Spamton can question it, Tenna nudges his knees apart enough to lean forward, screen-to-face. “Going around, yanking me by the tie like I’m a dog on a leash! Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners, Mr. Big Shot?” His mouth takes up almost the entire bottom of the screen with its wicked smile, fangs fully on display. “Lucky for you, that’s a lesson I’m willing to give.”

~ T ~

“So it’ll just a be a mild contract change, I think,” Tenna says. He’s shrunk himself down enough to lie flat on his back, but one leg still dangles over the arm of the couch, and the other bends so his foot is flat on the floor. “That way, if we do ever end up parting ways, TV Time and Big Shot Autos are still safe business-wise. A clean partnership break.”

Spamton mumbles something incoherently, something vaguely like “mm-hm”.

“Really, what was I ever so worked up about?” Tenna laughs softly, pressing a palm against his screen. “I guess… Well, total honesty, the fact that this has never happened before. Never even came up as a possibility! But I’ll give you credit, this has really cleared my head.” Spamton doesn’t respond at all this time, splayed out on Tenna’s chest with one hand tucked under his cheek and the other hanging loosely at his side. Tenna glances down. “…You okay, partner?”

“Yuh” is the only reply. Tenna wiggles a bit to look, and he swears that his co-host’s eyes are downright glazed over as he stares blankly into the dressing room. His breathing has finally started to settle, but his hair is tousled, having been forcibly broken from the gel cast that kept it slicked back. There’s a massive bite mark on his left shoulder, and his clothes… well, with a quick glance, Tenna notices a button missing from his shirt as it lay discarded on the floor. In retrospect, he could have held back a little. But, well… the stress got to him more than he cares to admit.

Tenna smooths his hand over his co-host’s hair as a silent apology. “Maybe… we should talk business later. Sorry, Spammy, I get a little ahead of myself sometimes.”

Spamton heaves a big sigh and finally blinks. “You, uh… heh. So when I said you were [Large and In Charge], I wasn’t expecting you to [Show it off?] like that.” He pauses to tilt his head towards Tenna, a tired smile on his face. “[this has never happened before].” It’s a bit weird to hear his own voice, albeit somewhat tinnier, coming from Spamton, but the meaning of the words is more important here. Seeing Tenna’s antennae shoot up in surprise, Spamton hurriedly adds, “Being on this end, I mean.”

Tenna pauses to contemplate that before he laughs. “Oh, right. Mr. Big Shot is too used to getting his way, hm?”

“Jerk.”

Tenna leans up carefully, making sure not to jostle his co-host too much, and kisses him on the top of the head. “First time I’ve heard you complain about it. Large and in charge, right?”

Spamton rolls his eyes and smiles. “Fame really does go to your head, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, this wasn’t for fame.” Tenna wraps his arms around Spamton’s waist, hugging him close like a child holds their favorite stuffed animal. “This was all for you, my favorite cohost.” And if the word 'favorite' floats up from Tenna's screen in a saccharine, flowy pink script, well, that's no one's business but theirs.

~ S ~

Before he made it [[Big]], Spamton got used to mending his own clothes. As the least successful of the Addisons, he had been used to going long stretches with tight funds. Tenna accidentally popped a button getting his shirt off last night (the thought still makes his heart feel a little funny), but it’s nothing that he can't sew back on pretty quickly. He even hums quietly to himself as he pulls the thread, a gentle, repetitive motion that he can easily lose himself in.

Tenna is gussying up at Spamton’s vanity, occasionally stopping to watch him. “What a real jack-of-all-trades, huh?”

Spamton looks up just long enough to wink at him before he goes back to tying off the thread. Once he’s sure the button repair looks seamless, he shrugs his shirt back on. “What [Time!] are we on?”

Tenna checks his watch. “…Half an hour to pre-check.”

“Great. When you’re done preening, let’s go get [The Best Part of Waking Up], huh?”

“Preening?” Tenna laughs, swinging around in the chair. “I’m not the one that takes twenty minutes to do my hair.”

“Hey, it takes a lot of work to get this [Look]!”

With another chuckle, the TV host stands up to his full height, re-adjusting his coat. “Coffee sounds great, partner. But…” Tenna’s smile turns insufferably smug. “You sure you’re alright to walk that far?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, [[CRT]].” Spamton jumps up from the sofa and heads to the door, hoping he’s fast enough that Tenna can’t see the flush creeping across his cheeks.

~ S ~

Things… don’t change, really. With the new contract Tenna draws up by the end of the day, they’re still the perfect image of professionalism on stage. It takes a few days after that for the stage crew to relax; apparently, while they were awkwardly avoiding each other, Tenna was being a bit… prickly. “It’s good you two finally talked things out,” Elnina says one night, sipping a drink at the bar.

“We’ve worked with Tenna for a long time,” Lanino adds, sitting between her and Spamton. “And when he’s stressed about something, he tends to take it out on other people.”

Behind the bar, Ramb chuckles drily. “You get used to it after a while.”

Spamton raises his brow at his bar-time companions. “What, you thought we were fighting or something?”

Lanino snorts. “Please. You two have been so frosty the past few days. It was starting to get a bit uncomfortable.”

Spamton looks down at the bar, eyes widening. Oh no. It’s that obvious? He knew they hadn’t exactly been subtle with how much they liked each other, but he’d been hoping people would see it as playful flirting. The way that he’d intended from the get-go, before he’d realized that Tenna was into it. But if Tenna had been moping about it… yeesh. Realizing that the bar had gone quiet, Spamton forces a laugh. “Ah, you [hopefully never know]—know how it is! Every dynamic duo has a spat [Right now!] and then. Butting heads, creative differences, things like that!”

Elnina and Lanino glance at each other. There’s something in their faces that makes Spamton suspicious. “Just… be careful,” Lanino eventually says. “And if he ever gets snippy with you, don’t take it personally. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

Spamton knocks back the rest of his drink, trying to keep his breathing steady. He knows just how bad Tenna’s bite is now; his shoulder still aches a little from the marks his cohost left behind. Of course, that’s not the only place Tenna had sunk his teeth into, but he can’t linger on that thought for too long in polite company.

Speaking of which, he finishes off his drink and bids them a good night before heading back to his dressing room. When he passes Tenna in the hallway, he gives him a cheeky smile and a wink, and Tenna responds by grinning right back. They’re both too busy tonight for anything more than that, but still, Spamton laughs softly to himself once he’s safely in his dressing room.

~ T ~

Every morning, Mr. Ant Tenna looks into his mirror and thinks, ‘I have a secret.’ It’s still mind-blowing to think that the host, producer, and director of TV World is carrying on an illicit affair behind the scenes. An illicit affair with Spamton G. Spamton, of all people.

Okay, it’s not that illicit. There’s no infidelity and, with their new contract, the power imbalance isn’t actually all that imbalanced. In a perfect world, if their relationship ever goes public, there shouldn’t be too much blowback. Still, Tenna would like to keep it under wraps for now. He knows that his crew can be horrible gossipers, and he’d like to spare his new partner too much staring and jeering.

…Although, at the end of the day, they’re people, and people are flawed. Some nights, Tenna can’t resist sneaking into Spamton’s dressing room to go over ‘script edits’. Spamton will invite him to take [A Ride around Town…]—they don’t go to the little cliff outside of Cyber City just for the view anymore. Spamton even dares to pull him down and kiss him furiously ten seconds before they’re due back on stage one night. Tenna teaches him an important lesson on patience once the cameras are off. He’s been the sole face of TV Time for his entire life; while he doesn’t mind sharing the stage now and then, sharing it to this degree… It feels like a dream.

When Spamton asks if he wants to go to dinner, saying “no” doesn’t even cross Tenna’s mind as he grabs his jacket. “Sometimes, you just miss [The Classics You’ve Come to Expect! (c)1997],” Spamton says, leading Tenna down the neon streets of Cyber City. Tenna recognizes this stretch of street; there’s a cyber grill down here that Spamton seems to really like, considering this is the fourth or fifth time they’ve come this way. But just as he’s about to say something else, he stops short, staring ahead into one of the windows.

“Spamton?”

His cohost’s posture seems stiff, and Tenna tries to follow his gaze. It looks busy, but there’s a big table towards the back with… huh. They almost look like Spamton, except more colorful, with their bodies colored and their outfits coordinated, featuring black jackets and green trousers. They seem to be engaged in a passionate conversation. A sharp bark of a laugh draws his attention back to Spamton, who turns on his heel and starts towards a crosswalk. “…Oops! Looks like they’re busy.”

“W-well, I’m sure they could make some room for us—”

“Plan B,” Spamton interrupts. Or maybe he just isn’t listening, since he doesn’t show any recognition towards Tenna. “There’s this karaoke place a bit down [The] way. Only been [Buy one, get one free!], but they have [Private rooms]. Hell, maybe we can bust out some [showtunes].”

Tenna glances back at the grill. And although the karaoke bar is a blast (and it turns out that, while Tenna can barely carry a tune, Spamton has some decent pipes on him), when he powers down for the night, he can’t get Spamton’s face off his mind. In the moment before he’d pivoted them to the karaoke bar, he’d almost looked… heartbroken.

~ S ~

Spamton looks up at the ceiling of his room in Queen’s mansion and thinks that this is the life. Tenna is collapsed next to him, a camellia blooming from his nose as he sighs in satisfaction. Spamton’s getting used to the sounds, the little smiles and laughs of utter joy he takes in their ‘script editing sessions’. This little situation is working out pretty well in both their favor. “I have to admit, partner,” Tenna says dreamily, the camellia disappearing back into his screen as he turns to look over. “It’s… nice. To think about something besides the show.”

Spamton winks, finishing off his cigarette and crushing the butt into the tray on his bedside table. “You live and breathe [TV Time!], Ant. You’ve gotta know when to take a breather. Step back a bit.”

“Mm.” Tenna scoots closer, resting his chin on Spamton’s head. He’s freshly out of the shower, and there’s not much point in gelling his hair down right before bed, so his loose waves are free and a bit unruly. It’s… a little scary, honestly, letting Tenna see him without the careful attention he usually puts into his appearance. Being a [Big Shot] is a lot of work, work that he’s grinded and clawed his way into, and anything that suggests he’s anything more than [#1RatedSalesman1997] is dangerous. “You’re a bad influence.”

“[Guilty].” Spamton lets Tenna cling to him, the gentle whine from his screen humming in his ears. At first, it was a bit grating, that constant whine trailing behind Tenna wherever he went. But now it’s almost comforting, and after a few minutes, it fades away into the background, joining the faint sounds of traffic. Lights from the city peek through his curtains, creating an ocean of color on his walls. Between the comfort of his bed, Tenna’s warmth, and the impromptu light show, a weird feeling starts burning in his chest, just enough for him to notice; he can’t quite figure out what it is. Like… safety. Like—

There’s a quiet, digital ‘ping!’ above them, their only warning before something drops down on Tenna’s head with a hard sound. Tenna’s screen goes staticky in surprise, but as he reaches up to feel what just hit him, it rolls off his head and lands on the pillow above Spamton. Spamton reaches above him to grab it, bringing it up to his face. “The hell?” he mutters, staring at the blue, oblong thing in his hands.

“Oww,” Tenna whines, frantically patting the top of his head to feel for any cracks. “W-what is that? Oh, did it crack anything? How’s my casing look?”

Spamton sits upright, looking his cohost over before determining, “You’re fine.” He turns his attention back to the thing in his hand. It’s almost egg-shaped, but hitting Tenna doesn’t seem to have cracked it at all, so it must be sturdier than that. If he looks really closely, in the glow of Tenna’s screen, he faintly sees some glitchy text above the thing that says… “Pipis?”

Tenna peers at it, nearly resting his head on Spamton’s shoulder, right as the thing chirps, and he rears back again. “Should we be worried? Is this a Cyber City thing? O-or ‘data’ or whatever?”

“Yeah, it’s probably a glitch or something.” The thing—the pipis?—chirps again, rocking gently in Spamton’s hands. This is weird, but he also gets the inkling that it’s relatively harmless. “Probably just wait for it to despawn or something.”

The pipis chirps a couple more times when he sets it on his nightstand, but eventually, it also fades into the background, and they soon fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, that warm feeling still settled in Spamton’s chest.

~ T ~

The pipis is still there in the morning. But the longer Tenna looks at it, the more he can’t help but find it kind of cute. He nestles it carefully on his lap on the drive back to TV World. The weird thing is, over the next few days, even more show up, always in the wake of Spamton’s presence. None of them bean Tenna in the head the way the first one did, but one spawns in under a heavy set piece and cracks open all over the set during pre-show check. When Tenna examines the shattered thing on the floor, he can see... some kind of meat inside. Cooking show knowledge in hand, he determines, “I think it’s… a clam? Or close to it.”

Spamton groans, sliding a hand down his face. “[[Y]]? Like I don’t already have a [Sunday Business] to run, [Right now!] I’ve gotta look out for these things, too?”

“Well, if it’s a clam, it’s probably edible.” Tenna shrugs, snapping for a clean-up crew. “Should be easy to take care of.”

The original one, though… It’s much bigger than the new ones that ‘spawn’ in, as Spamton says. And it’s much noisier, too, chirping and clucking whenever Tenna gets close. So while the other pipises (he and Spamton are currently in a minor argument over whether the plural is ‘pipises’ or ‘pipi’) get used as cheap protein, this one sits in a plush red pillow right on his vanity, one of the few things he’ll share a mirror with.

When he looks at it, pressing his hand against the hard shell, he remembers holding his cohost close, feeling warm and fulfilled and like the luckiest CRT in the world. A little secret memory, just for himself.

~ T ~

It’s Halloween. But it’s not just any Halloween; this is Spamton’s first Halloween with TV Time. “Things are going to get intense once the sun sets,” Tenna warns him, making sure his ringleader costume is pressed and ready to go. “Especially if December comes by the house—she and Kris are fiends for a horror movie marathon! I hate to say it, partner, but this will be a long day.”

“You’re even [All Dressed Up] for it,” Spamton comments, raising an eyebrow at the costume and taking a drag from his cigarette. “I’ll hand it to you, Ant, you’re [In A Committed—].”

Tenna spins on the ball of his foot with a flourish. “Entertainment requires passion, my dear cohost! If we do our regular humdrum routine, there’d be no more reason to watch TV today than any other day! We’re mostly emcees tonight, but we still have to play the part.”

Spamton’s costume is the full stereotypical Dracula thing, although he refuses to wear the fangs any longer than he has to. “I sound like Daffy Duck,” he complains during a commercial break. He pulls the retainer out, staring at the plastic fangs with disdain.

“Oh, lighten up, Spammy. It’s just for show.” Tenna pats his shoulder and grins. “You do make a handsome Dracula.”

Spamton preens a little at that, finally offering a genuine smirk. “Oh, I [Bets!] I do.” That confidence fades at the next horror movie, a slasher flick that Tenna has seen many times now. December really likes the, uh… creative ways that the characters die. Spamton, however, does not, actually screaming at a jumpscare and scrambling back, wrapping himself up in his cloak like it’s a barrier. “[Heaven], Ant!”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re scared!” Tenna laughs, pausing when Spamton doesn’t emerge from the cloak. “…Oh, are you actually?”

“Listen, I’ve seen my share of [Relaxing Car Drive]. Doesn’t mean I have to [[Like and Subscribe!]] it!”

“Relaxing Car Drive?”

Spamton emerges from the cloak to shake his head. “You don’t want to [hopefully never know].”

Thankfully, the rest of the Halloween marathon goes by uneventfully aside from Spamton having to walk laps and calm down after intense scenes. “That’s a wrap!” Tenna says, clapping his hands when he sees Toriel turn the screen off. December and Asriel are passed out against each other on the floor, and Kris and Noelle are curled up on the couch, and the scene makes Tenna’s heart swell in his chest. “Another successful Halloween.”

“You weren’t kidding,” Spamton says wearily, popping his fake fangs out for the last time. “Ugh. How does [Anyone and anything] talk with these things?”

“Listen, the budget is what it is.” Tenna pauses, taking a look around. A stage-managing Zapper is taking the reins, ordering the rest of the crew to start tearing down the seat. Aside from some passing praise, no one is paying much attention to them. “Let’s call it a night, huh? The crew can handle the clean up.”

Spamton nods. Tenna leads him back to his dressing room and makes himself at home on the couch. Once Spamton’s undressed, Tenna pulls him down, nuzzling into him tightly. “Geez, [[CRT]]—” Spamton protests, pushing against him.

“Relax,” Tenna coos. Spamton stops fighting after a second, submitting himself to the forced cuddle session. He does eventually relax, resting his head on Tenna’s chest. “For your first holiday special, you did great.”

“Of course I did,” Spamton says, but his voice lacks conviction. Tenna chalks it up to exhaustion.

~ S ~

At some point early on in his arrangement with Tenna, Spamton agreed to handle the fan mail. Well, actually, Tenna assumed he’d handle the fan mail, and Spamton figured he might as well. Even now that he has more say in segments and sponsorships, he still spends his free time in the mail room, sorting through poorly-written love letters and the occasional piece of hate mail. He shreds those instantly; the one time a piece of hate mail got through to Tenna, they had to play reruns since Tenna had shrunk to the size of an actual ant and sulked the entire day.

Another pipis spawns in on the stack of hate mail with a chirp. Spamton sighs and tucks it away in his jacket.

Knuckles rap on the door before it creaks open. “Oh, cohost?” Tenna calls gently. “Fresh coffee in the Green Room!”

Spamon blinks and looks up. Something in his spine cracks at the motion, and he realizes that he’s been slouching like a shrimp over the desk for a good two hours now. “Hochi mama. Didn’t realize I’d been in here that long.” He stands up from his desk and, on a whim, picks up the stack of fan mail on his desk, handing it to Tenna as he passes by.

They settle into the Green Room, where, sure enough, there’s half of a fresh pot of coffee at the ready. Spamton knocks back a cup black just to wake himself up. The second cup he readies with a splash of cream and sugar, joining Tenna on the sofa as the TV host starts picking through the mail. “…Aww. ‘Your show is very specil to me’. Specil. How cute is that?”

Spamton looks up to see Tenna reading a letter with a warm smile on his face. Flowers bloom on his screen in multi-colored little buds. It’s adorable, and Spamton feels that strange feeling in his chest again. Warm, safe, like he could sit here and do this forever. And suddenly, the warm feeling disappears under an icy chill that pierces through his chest. The thought strikes him like a missile: he could do this forever. He likes being here. He likes TV World, he likes his dressing room, he likes hearing Tenna babble on about show ideas and metrics, and the way he adores the family that watches him. But no, that’s not quite right. He doesn’t like it.

He loves it. He—

“Spammy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Spamton blinks back to the present to see Tenna leaning towards him, looking concerned. “Oh! Just thinking.” Spamton forces a smile and sets his coffee cup down. “Hey , I’ve got a lot of numbers to crunch. I’m gonna head back to the office, okay?”

Tenna tilts his head. “Uh… sure. Are you okay?”

“Never better!” Spamton hops off the couch and waves goodbye, waiting until he’s out of Tenna’s sight to spring back to the office and lock the door behind him. The revelation that’s just struck him pounds in his head like a nail: he loves being here. Life is so much better here than in Cyber City. Here, he doesn’t have to worry about running into those [Sloppy sams] with their fake businesses and fake smiles. He can just sit here, crunch numbers, sort mail, and figure out ad spots.

He can wake up in the mornings to Tenna holding him. They can risk some ‘special attention’ in the hours before they’re on for a show, where Spamton can literally wrap Tenna around his fingers. He can be himself behind closed doors. He can relax. He loves being in TV World. He loves being here with Tenna.

Holy [Cungadero]. Does he love Tenna?

The answer settles like a precariously placed brick in his chest.

~ T ~

After the fourth day in a row of Spamton waking him up to get frisky, Tenna starts to suspect something’s up. By no means does he dislike the attention, but it’s getting to a point where they’re too busy to do much else. During the show, they’re both ‘on’, and Spamton focuses on the numbers and getting the sponsors sorted out. After the show, he locks himself in his office until the studio closes down, at which point he frequently worms his way into Tenna’s dressing room.

It’s lovely, but also very distracting. “Spamton,” Tenna says one night when the salesman knocks on his door. “Do we need to talk about something?”

Spamton stares up at him, eyes wide. “No!!! Not at all!” But his smile is a little too wide; with the cracks along his jaw, it’s a little uncanny. “Just enjoying our [[All Alone]]—alone time while we can.”

“Oh really?” Tenna crosses his arms, tilting his head. “You know I love spending time with my favorite cohost, but I’m starting to think you’re using me for my body.”

Spamton laughs at that, his uneasiness slipping off of him like water off a duck’s back. “Oh please! Only as much as you’re using me for mine!”

“It is a nice body,” Tenna concedes with a smile. “Still. I dare say you’re wearing me out, Spammy.”

Spamton raises his hands. “Okay, okay, no funny [Sunday Business], promise.” He glances aside, his smile fading. “…I’ve just been thinking [alot] lately. About our arrangement.”

Tenna relaxes a bit as well, leading Spamton to the couch and pouring them both some whiskey. “Our contract’s still favorable, I hope!”

“Yeah, you bet.” Spamton clinks his glass against Tenna’s and takes a sip. “I’m just starting to think, uh… [Long-Term Profits].” He taps his finger against his glass, staring off towards the wall before he takes a deep breath. “I like it here, Ant. You’ve been good to me as far as business partners go. Better than those [Schmoes] that ditched me the second I started making it [Big].” He glances up at Tenna with a smile. “I know I can’t stay forever. But while I am here… let’s make the most of it, huh?”

Tenna smiles again, relief flooding his systems, but soon replaced with curiosity. “What are you thinking?”

Spamton shifts on the couch, staring up at him with a bright smile. “Mr. Ant Tenna… I agree to your original [Terms And Conditions Apply].”

~ S ~

“This is an exclusive offer.”

It’s the one condition to Spamton’s [Deal]. He doesn’t know much about his benefactor, but they definitely seem like the reclusive type. Still, he’s spent the past few days and nights pacing his office and dressing room—well, when he wasn’t rolling around with Tenna on the dressing room couch (and walls and floors and tabletops). Yes, his benefactor gives him ideas, the right things to say to get people hooked. But it was he alone who had convinced them to even give him a shot. That means he has some kind of charisma. He can convince his benefactor that this is a good idea.

It takes Tenna a day to dig up the original contract, the one that gives him a permanent position in exchange for his trade secrets. They meet in Spamton’s dressing room after the show wraps up, and Tenna has a giddy smile on his screen even as he says, “You’re sure about this, Spammy? I don’t want you to think you have to do this. I’m happy working with you regardless.”

“Ant. This is the only [Deal] that I really see working out for both of us.” Spamton pauses, taking a deep breath. This is his chance to come clean. To admit what he’s come to terms with. And… he can’t do it. The words catch in his throat like a hairball that he has to swallow back down. So he settles for the soft version. “Nobody deserves to be [Big] with me more than you do.”

Tenna stares down at him, his screen going blank for a moment as he processes the statement. “Spamton…” he says softly, clutching the contract close to his chest. “I… thank you.” He clears his throat after a second and sets the contract down on the coffee table. “So! As permanent of a position as we can get—although I think at this point, the laptop is legally Asriel’s, since he doesn’t seem keen on returning it—in exchange for what made you so successful.”

Spamton nods, glancing over the contract again just in case. It all seems perfectly reasonable, more of an official expansion on his pre-existing responsibilities than anything. So he grabs the pen and signs it with a little flourish, sliding it back over to Tenna.

Tenna signs off right below him, staring at their names on the paper. It’s so… official. “Well then!” Tenna leans back on the couch, folding his hands in his lap. “So, Mr. Spamton. What’s the secret?”

Spamton grins. “Well, it all started with—”

And just then, the phone rings.

~ S ~

They both jump at the sound. The rotary phone is nestled in the corner by the front door, and the receiver nearly vibrates with the force of the ringing. “Speak of the devil,” Spamon says, standing up. “Sorry, Ant. One second.” Tenna sighs, unable to hide his frustration. Spamton picks up the phone, idly twisting the cord with his finger, and greets, “Hey—”

“What are you doing?” [[Hyperlink Blocked]] says, cutting him off. Their voice is cold and furious, and it gives Spamton pause.

“Listen, I was gonna tell you at our next [Call Now]—”

“I told you this was an exclusive offer.”

“I know that, but what’s [The] harm an additional clause?”

“You've broken the terms of our agreement. Consider your employment terminated, effective immediately.”

Spamon feels himself go cold. “No… no, you can’t!”

~ T ~

That gets Tenna’s attention. He leans over the back of the couch to look at his cohost, who is frozen with the phone receiver pressed to his ear. “Spamton? Everything okay?”

Spamton doesn’t respond, the receiver dropping from his hand. It hits the floor with a crack, then bounces back up. He turns, his face as white as a sheet, eyes wide in terror. “I… I’ve gotta…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he runs for the door, yanking it open and disappearing into the hallway.

“Spamton!” Tenna stands up, looking after his cohost. He hears Spamton’s shoes echo down the hallway before disappearing, but when he steps forward to chase after him, he hears a muffled voice coming from the phone. Whoever Spamton was talking to is still on the line. Curiosity overtakes him—maybe he can introduce himself, at least. He holds the receiver up and tentatively asks, “Hello?”

There’s a click, and the line goes dead. Tenna stares at the receiver for a long moment before finally heading out to follow his cohost.

Except Spamton’s gone. When Tenna checks with the bar, Ramb just shrugs and says, “Said it was urgent business. Didn’t say when he’d be back.”

Tenna sighs, smoothing his hand over his screen. “Let me know as soon as he is,” he orders, trying to ignore the hard feeling sitting in his chest.

~ S ~

He heads back to Cyber City. He can’t be in TV World right now. How can he explain this to Tenna? That trying to help him, share his success, may have just cost him everything? [[Hyperlink Blocked]] isn’t picking up the phone, and when he checks his account, there haven’t been any new deposits. His hands are shaking as he paces his room. “This is,” he says to himself, his voice skipping out. He tries again. “This is [Fine]. I just need to keep [Calling]. They can’t [Block] me forever.”

He tries to call Tenna the next day, but he gets an intercept tone. He tries to call every day after that, only to hear that damn beeping. After a week, someone calls him, but it’s not the person he wants to hear from. “Hey, Money Guy,” Queen says. “So Funny Story. You Missed Your Rent This Week.”

“Yeah, Queen, uh… [always listen to a] there’s a technical issue.”

“Debug Or Something. I’m Feeling Generous So You Have Until Tomorrow.” She hangs up, and Spamton stares at the phone.

He doesn’t sleep, so the phone call that comes through the next morning doesn’t wake him up. He picks up the phone and says wearily, “You’ve made your point.”

“There was one rule. You broke it.”

“[%$#@] you, man.” Spamton stops short, sitting upright. “…[%$#@]. [%$#@]! [%$#@]!” The word won’t come out.

The voice says, “There’s no need for that language.”

“He deserves to be [Another Satisfied Customer]—HAPPY! We both do! Y OU just gave me [The] boost I needed. I can make this work.”

“No. You can’t. My knowledge is wasted on him. And you were, and always will be, a puppet to fate.” The voice pauses. “…So perhaps you should look the part.”

Spamton doesn’t even have time to ask what that means before his whole body is torn apart at the seams.

~ T ~

“You haven’t heard from him at all?” Tenna presses. When the Zapper shakes his head, Tenna groans. “Fine. I’ll go to Cyber City and drag him back here myself.”

The Zapper pauses. “…You ain’t heard, boss?” Tenna groans, levelling the Zapper with the most derisive body language he can muster. “They took the laptop back.”

The words wash over Tenna like an ice bath. “…What do you mean, ‘they took it back’?!”

“They took it back to the library yesterday.” Tenna’s screen goes blank, and he desperately tries to keep his breathing steady. The laptop’s gone. And if the laptop’s gone, that means that TV World and Cyber City are no longer connected. If Spamton isn’t here… “Boss?”

“…Thank you. Just… keep an ear out. And when they bring it back, tell me.” Tenna leaves the Zapper to his duty and starts walking. Spamton’s gone. There’s no way for him to get back. He left. Tenna’s not even surprised when he finds himself at Spamton’s dressing room, opening the door. The receiver is still off the hook, everything still frozen like a Polaroid photograph. He stares into it for a long time before turning the lights off and leaving.

Two weeks pass. Asriel hasn’t brought the laptop back. Tenna has one too many drinks at the bar and staggers into Spamton’s dressing room. Still pristine. Still untouched. Tenna knocks back the last of his whiskey and chucks the glass as hard as he can. It crashes into the mirror, the sound of shattered glass filling the space. “Damn you!” he curses into the empty space. “How could you just leave like that?! Without a word!” His shoulders slump, and then so does the rest of him, kneeling on the floor. “Without me?”

There’s no answer.

~ S ~

Spamton fumbles along, hand pressed against the basement walls. Acid drips from his clothes, the result of a careless slip into the acid pool while he was running. He must’ve been in long enough to shrink a little, because he’s finding it hard to balance. No one ever comes down here. He’s safe for now. The Swatchlings are probably busy emptying his room, a forced eviction due to failure to pay. How could this all have gone so wrong?

His hand touches something different. Hard, metallic, cool under his suddenly-too-hard fingers. He pauses, looking up, and sees a multicolored thing. It hangs from the wall, wrapped up in dull green cords. Something shines in its chest, and he tentatively reaches out to it.

And as his palm touches black glass, h̴e̶

s̸͈̆e̴̬̐ĕ̷͔s̴̯̑

H̴̗̯̮̖̀̈́ ̵̡̠̳̂̈́̽e̸̻̅ ̵̠̤̦̌a̴̬͌ ̴̡̳͓̖͌ṿ̴̗̤̓͋ ̴͉̫̙͌̏̈́͛ę̷͂͒͝ ̸̥͋͠n̶̦̟̖̙̓́̔̆.̵̼̭́͘

The Swatchlings find him eventually, tossing him out of the mansion, their grace dried up at Queen’s command. He presses against a wall in an alley, trying to get his head on straight, but his thoughts keep going back to the thing in the basement. A body, big and powerful-looking. Maybe… that’s the answer to all of his problems. If he can just get back in there, figure out how to interface with it, maybe he can salvage this.

After the acid pool, his clothes are worse for the wear, so he starts scavenging. He swipes some glasses from the Color Cafe, a poor attempt to disguise himself. He systematically grabs new clothes from the Addisons’ stalls when they’re distracted with other customers—he barely manages to scamper away with the jacket. Time and time again, he manages to get in, but the Swatchlings, or worse, Swatch himself, always catch him before he can get too far. One time, he manages to make it to the basement door only to find that the staff of the mansion has locked it.

Along the way, he makes a home for himself in an unused, unoccupied dumpster. An ad of himself stares at him mockingly for a good few months before Queen has it covered up. Somehow, that’s not any better. He curls up with a discarded pillow, staring at the closed lid of the dumpster, and unadulterated hatred fills his chest. Damn the phone. Damn Swatch—Spamton was stupid to think that they were actually friends.

And damn Tenna, most of all. This was all because of him, wasn’t it? From the get-go, Tenna had wanted the secret to his success. He’d worn Spamton down, gotten past his defenses and his self-preservation. Made him sentimental. How could Spamton have ever thought that they had something? Was he really so deluded as to believe that it was love? No. It was always just business. Business with a side of fun.

Spamton seethes, slamming his fist into the dumpster. They’ll pay. They’ll all pay.

~ T ~

After six months, Tenna seals off Spamton’s dressing room. “Forget it’s even there,” he orders. Everyone seems to give him a wide berth now, but that’s fine. Surely they can understand that he’s a little stressed right now. His partner—business partner, he reminds himself, even if the thought makes him choke up for some reason—left him high and dry. After nearly two months of sweet talk and drinks and fooling around, Spamton had agreed to give him his secrets and then bailed.

All that time. All that energy. All the… happiness, and butterflies in his chest, and visions of the two of them taking TV by storm. All for nothing. But the show must go on, and he can almost say that things are back to normal.

Except on one Christmas Eve, December and Carol aren’t there. Tenna keeps an eye out for them, thinking that maybe they’re just running late, but no. They never show up. Rudy and Noelle still come by, but everyone seems to be in lower spirits than usual. Tenna just tries harder, then, making sure every Christmas special plays on time and without flaw. But December and Carol don’t come for any holidays after.

The next Easter, Noelle isn’t there. And that’s when the fighting starts. Barely-hushed yelling, Toriel and Asgore’s voices, faint echoes that Tenna hears when the TV is on late at night. Arguments. Whose fault is what, how she can’t do this anymore. And suddenly, Asgore’s gone, too.

“How can you just leave?” Tenna asks again, staring out at the Dreemurrs’ living room. It’s just Kris and Toriel now. When did Asriel leave? When did Rudy? Kris gets up to go to bed, their head hanging low, and Toriel stays up for a little while longer. But she’s not paying attention to Tenna. She’s reading something, using him as background noise. That’s almost worse than not being watched at all.

Eventually, she gets up and, with a sigh, turns him off for the last time.

~ T: 202X ~

Tenna wakes up suddenly in his room in Castle Town, the sound of his internals degaussing echoing through the air. It’s a nice little place, even if it’s temporary; he has to admit, Ralsei knows how to decorate. He stretches, wincing at the ache in his arms, and decides that maybe it’s time to take a walk.

The Spade Prince (Lancer? Lancer sounds right) is rolling around in the dirt outside and offers him a friendly wave. Tenna waves back, forcing a bright smile as he passes. It seems like it’s pretty late at night, given how everyone seems to be out and about. Darkners are always most active when the lights go out, after all. He takes in the buzz of activity, the music echoing from the cafe as he passes. Music that grows almost deafening as the back door slams open, and something comes flying out. “Do not disgrace us with your presence again,” a Swatchling says sternly.

Tenna stops to watch as a small figure climbs up to their feet, seemingly having been tossed out. “CAN'T A [[Big Shot]] GET A DECENT [A Free Meal] AN YMORE???” they screech, turning on their heel to glower at the Swatchling. “TALK ABO4T TERRIBLE SERVICE!“ The door slams in their face, and they turn around, re-adjusting their coat, and freezing at the sight of Tenna standing just feet away. Oh god, it’s the weird creature from TV World, the one that dared try to approach the pipis.

…But something that they said lingers in Tenna’s mind, poking at something familiar. ‘Big shot’? Before he can say anything, though, the figure darts away down the alley. “Hey!” he calls after them, giving chase. For their size, they’re fast, but not fast enough for Tenna to lose them entirely. He sees their legs scrambling into a dumpster behind the bakery, the lid slamming shut decisively behind them. Tenna quietly approaches, looking around to see if anyone’s watching before he knocks on the lid. “Excuse me. I’m sorry if I startled you, but…”

“COME TO [Drowning] ME IN [insulating foam]?” A voice says from inside the dumpster, tinny and muffled.

Tenna grimaces. “Okay, to be fair, you came out of nowhere and I was in a very vulnerable state. I couldn’t risk you hurting her.”

“HER?”

“It’s… a long story.”

The lid opens a crack. Two-toned lenses flash in the dim light. “IT’S [Invasive Freshwater Clams], [[CRT]]. NOT A SHE.”

Tenna freezes. That sound bite... “What did you just call me?” The figure in the dumpster doesn’t respond. Instead, it disappears back inside, the lid snapping on Tenna’s fingers before he can pull back. “Ah! Hey!” Tenna shakes his hand out and puffs up his chest. “Listen here, you. Only one person ever called me ‘CRT’, and that same person also happened to use very similar vernacular to you. So who are you, big shot?”

The dumpster remains silent. Finally, it opens a crack again, and those lenses stare right at him. “…LEAVE ME ALONE, [[Ant-Sized]]—[[Ant–Sized]]—[[Ant-Sized]]—[$!X$]!!!“ The dumpster lid slams shut again, and Tenna hears several dull thunks.

“Ant?” Tenna asks. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“…Ant.” And that voice, he recognizes, thoroughly confirming his suspicions. “LEAVE.”

Tenna pulls back, but there’s an ugly feeling rising in his chest. Indignant rage that he can’t keep from creeping into his voice. “No. Not until you tell me why you left me! Where have you been? What the hell happened to you?”

The dumpster lid slams open, and the figure rises from the trash. And now that he’s really looking, he can see it. The loose waves of black hair, barely kept in check with gel; the cracks from his mouth to his jaw; the black eyes that stare at him from behind those lenses. God, this is really him, isn’t it? “I DIDN’T. Want. To. Llll—[Short Term Leases Available]—LEAVE.”

Tenna swallows hard. “But you did.”

The alley is silent for a long moment before the figure… Spamton sinks back down into the dumpster, resting his chin on the edge of the container. “…I’M [Sinciriest Apologies!].”

Tenna can’t take it anymore. He reaches forward, grabbing Spamton under the arms and hauling him out of the dumpster. Spamton dangles there, eyes wide as he tries to squirm out of the TV host’s grasp, but is unable to break free before Tenna punches him down the alleyway. Spamton hits the ground hard, rolling a good foot away before stopping. He pushes himself up to his hands and knees with a cough as Tenna storms towards him, reaching out again.

Except this time, he falls to his knees and pulls Spamton to his chest in a crushing hug. “Damn you,” he curses, unable to stop the static that starts dripping from his screen.

~ S: 202X ~

Spamton stares blankly at the wall, wrapped in a clean, warm towel. Tenna refused to let him on any of the furniture until he was cleaned up, so now his hair flops uselessly in his face. It’s down to his shoulders now. “So you’ve been helping Kris?” Tenna asks, sipping his acid as he sits beside him. He’d gone into the cafe to buy a bottle since the Swatchlings won’t let Spamton in.

“THEY TRIED TO GIFT ME [Freedom].” He drums his fingers against his wine glass. “IT WAS [The] LEAST I COULD DO.”

Tenna hums, letting silence drag on between them. “…What happened? Why did they kick you out of the cafe? I thought you were the most famous person in Cyber City.”

Spamton’s head glitches, and he automatically says, “[[Number 1 Rated Salesman1997]].” He hisses and shakes his head, pressing his hand over his eyes. “...MY SALES WENT DOWN [The] [[Drain]] [[Drain]]. I’M JUST A [Joe] NOW. A [Schmoe].”

Tenna mulls that over for a moment. “…Your voice… can you not control that?” Spamton shakes his head. “You… weren’t nearly this bad back then. I thought it was strange, but I figured it was just a quirk of yours.”

“IT WAS A [Terms and Conditions] TO MY [Deal]. I DIDNT HAVE TO [Think before you], I COULD JUST [sell sell sell!].“ Spamton takes a drink, the burn bringing back a flash of a painful memory. He hasn’t touched battery acid since his fall from grace; being completely submerged in it kind of took the novelty out of it. "NOW [L@@K] [where] IT GOT ME."

Tenna sighs and sets his wine glass down. “I’m… I told myself that you’d just used me. That it was just a business opportunity, that… none of it meant anything to you.”

“IT MEANT [3 Easy Payments of $9.99!]—[Heaven] DAMN IT.“ Spamton smacks himself in the head with a snarl. ”IT MEANT. EV3RY THING. TO ME. I MEANT EVERY [Words].“

Suddenly, hands wrap around him, and he’s pulled into Tenna’s chest again. Battery acid spills from his glass, sizzling on the rug. “I’m still upset with you,” Tenna says, his voice quaking with emotion. “But… I’m glad you’re back. Does that make sense?”

“NO THING MAKES SENSE.” Spamton leans into the hug, closing his eyes. It’s been so long since he’s been clean. Safe. Maybe even wanted. “Y OU JUST [Are we rolling?] WITH IT.”

Tenna eventually lets him go with a sniffle, wiping away the static dripping from his screen. “Sorry to get sappy, Spammy. It’s been… a rough few years.”

Spamton sets his glass down. “…THEYLL NEED ME AGAIN. THE LIGHT neR<S.”

Tenna nods. “And they’re trying to find me a new home.”

They both fall silent again. Eventually, Spamton says, “EVERYONE GETS [Spam] EMAILS. ILL BE [360 degrees]. SO… DO YOU THINK…” He clears his throat and focuses as hard as he can. “WE Can try again?” Tenna’s screen goes blank, so Spamton hurriedly adds, “As… AS [Friend(s)]?”

Tenna is quiet for a long moment, his screen dark as he lowers his head. “…I’d like that.” Tenna reaches for his wine glass again, a smile reappearing on his screen as he adds, “But only if you finally tell me what the hell an email is.”

Spamton smiles genuinely for the first time in what feels like forever. “[Deal]."

~ 202X ~

It’s not as easy as it sounds. There’s a lot to unpack between the two of them, and it all comes trickling out at the worst times. The next morning, Tenna’s irritable enough to pick a fight, growing big enough to nearly bring the roof down as he screams about how abandoned he’s felt. “You leaving was one thing,” he wails, static clinging to the carpet. “I could tell myself that you just used me. But they left, too! You know how much I wanted them to keep looking at me!”

Spamton doesn’t fare much better. “I TOLD MYS3LF THAT IT WAS [Coming Straight From Your]Y OUR FAULT,” he shoots back, face glitching and pulling apart into dead pixels. “SIGNING THAT [Deal] GOT ME HERE. I WANTED TO SHARE EV3RY   THING WITH Y OU AND IT LEFT ME WITH NO THING!”

That makes Tenna pause. “…Everything?”

Spamton’s jaw snaps shut. “…EVERything.” He lowers his head, his anger subsiding as quickly as it rose. “I… IT'S HARD BEING [Big]. I THOUGHT…” Spamton squeezes his eyes shut. Concentrates. It takes everything in him to force the words out uninterrupted. “I… thought… you could understand. The others… left. When I started selling [M@RE] than them.” The intrusion makes him wince, but hell, that’s the most coherent he’s been since Kris beat some sense into him, and he's probably gotten his point across. “YoU LIKED ME NO MATTER WHAT I DID. I COULD STOP PRETENDING SO MUCH.”

Tenna’s screen goes blank as he listens, slowly shrinking to sit on the couch. “…Pretending?”

“EAHAHA! PRETENDING [[Likes]] I [Knew] WHAT I WAS DOING!” Spamton rests his head against the couch cushions, shoulders slumping in defeat. “[Soy un perdedor], [[CRT]]! BEFORE I MADE THAT [Call Now!] I COULDN'T SELL [Water] TO A GOLD[phish]!”

Tenna mulls that over for a moment. “I find that hard to believe. I always thought you were charming, even without the, uh…”

“ADS.” When Tenna tilts his head, Spamton clarifies, “I CALL THEM ADS.”

“Oh. Yes. The ‘ads’.” They fall silent again before Tenna adds, somewhat softly, “If that was what you showed me, then I have to say that I liked who you were when you weren’t ‘pretending’.” Spamton sucks in a breath but says nothing. Tenna looks down at his hands and laughs quietly. “Maybe the others would, too.”

“THAT'S A [Tall] ORDER, [Cathode].”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t try.” Tenna sighs and stands up, heading to the kitchenette. Once he’s there, he pours himself some water... then sets the glass aside and leans on the counter. “Tell me you mean it.” Spamton pauses, tilting his head a little. In the silence, Tenna looks over his shoulder, his screen black. “That this isn’t goodbye forever. That you’ll be around.”

Spamton lowers his eyes. [Heaven], he wants to make that promise so badly. “…TELL YOUR [New!!!!] OWNER TO TURN OFF THEIR [Spam] FILTER. AND ILL TRY. IN [The] MEANTIME, I'M HERE [Right now!]. SO LET'S MAKE [The] MOST OF IT, HUH???”

Tenna finally turns around, his smile reappearing on his screen. “Okay… partner.” Spamton smiles back. And, staring from across the room, they settle into a mutual feeling. That, for just right now, this is okay.